Kate Vernon, Vol. 1 (of 3). Mrs. Alexander

a little elderly woman, who – "

      "Oh, I think I know, sir: she had a little brown mole on her cheek, near the chin. A beautiful young lady!"

      "Exactly," I exclaimed in delight.

      "They were only here two nights, and I don't know the name at all; they were quite strangers."

      How intensely annoying! "But is there no one in the house has an idea?"

      "Well, I can't say, sir; you see we have been so busy; if it is any one it will be Bill, one of the cabmen, sir, he took them somewhere this morning; and I think they come from A – , but I'm not sure."

      Here she began to gather her sticks and coals, and the waiter entered to lay the cloth.

      "Is Bill in?" said I – "If so, send him up without fail immediately after dinner." "He is out just now, sir." "Well, the moment he comes in, whether I have finished dinner or not."

      "Yes, sir," said both in chorus, and excited.

      I had dined, and was languidly examining the interior of a tart, when the waiter entered again, announcing that "Bill was there, if I wanted him." "Show him in, by all means: " and Bill made his appearance, hat in hand, and stroking down his hair.

      "Oh, good evening: your name is Bill, I understand, and I fancy you can tell me something I want to find out: – You drove a party from this hotel somewhere this morning, and I want to know their names: there was a little old lady, and a tall young one, with a short fat man, twinkling black eyes, eh! do you remember them?"

      "Yes, I think I does," said Bill, slowly, as if confused by my rapid description, "fat short gen'lman, spoke thickish, I remember; called my horse a rough sketch – not filled up."

      "Precisely; that's him, I am sure: what was the name?"

      "Can't say, sir; I tuck 'em to the railway station: they was a-goin' to A – ."

      "How do you know?" "Why, as I was a-putting of the luggage into a truck at the station, a porter turns one of 'em up, and says – this is for A – , not Manchester: and puts it all into another truck; and then I just see a name beginning with a W, and that was all, as I'd to come back direct, for there's been a sight of work this week."

      "Then none of you can tell me the name of that gentleman?"

      "No, sir, they was quite strangers."

      "Sorry to have troubled you; there – ."

      "No trouble sir, thank you sir."

      Well, thought I, this is small success; still, it is better than nothing, and is a beginning. I'll keep up my courage, and take an early train to A – to-morrow; I have often heard it is worth seeing, so first for my bill, and then for Burton.

      The first was soon settled, and a short drive placed me in the barracks, where, not a little wearied with the day's tramp, I speedily luxuriated in dressing-gown and slippers, and detailed to Burton the wonderful perseverance and sagacity with which I had hunted up the track. "At all events, old fellow, I've got the locale; the opening is decidedly propitious, and to-morrow I start for A – ; you shall hear the result on my return; for, as I am on duty, I must, I suppose, be back the same night. I can't ask you to take it again after to-day, but Sedley, or some one will." "Well," said Burton, "you deserve success, but what will you do when you get to A – ? Go to every house and describe your incognita? – or ask for a list of the inhabitants, and hunt up every name that begins with W? Certainly the Commander-in-Chief has a great deal to answer for in exposing H.M.'s officers to the dangers of such a quarter, where the dearth of all natural occupations and amusements drives them to Fouché-ism. I would offer to go with you, but that I promised Sedley to go over to – , just to have a look at M's mare, for after all he has entered Diana for the Cup, and I rather have a fancy to back her.

      "Oh never mind! you know, old boy, in a hunt of this kind, I think that safety or success does not consist in numbers; I'll take my sketch book, though I've almost forgotten how to hold a pencil since we came to this infer – , but I hear a row on the stairs; oblige me, my dear Burton, by not mentioning my search nor its object to any of our fellows, if you've not done so already; they are accustomed to my occasional artistic fits, when I cut you all, and" —

      "I'm dumb," said Burton, "only don't have one in reality, for you grow too philosophic to be companionable."

      As he spoke the door opened, and half a dozen noisy subs burst in to carry us off to Sedley's room, where devilled kidneys and Roman punch finished the evening.

      CHAPTER III.

      THE RENCONTRE

      THE quaint old cathedral town of A – is some twenty-five miles from Carrington, and often an excursion-point to the inhabitants of the latter, as an excellent hotel rendered them tolerably secure of a good dinner. I had often threatened a sketching visit to it, which bad weather, and a strict routine of duty, in consequence of the expected disturbances, had hitherto prevented my fulfilling. It was, therefore, with no common alacrity I started on my expedition, armed with a large sketch book, which bid defiance to the suspicion of my brother officers. The weather though gloomy was no longer wet, and a walk of about half a mile brought me from the railway to the walls of the old city. Rough, red, and weather beaten, they, at the first glance, showed many a point equally available to a draughtsman or an enemy. Once considered almost impregnable, they are now chiefly valued as a dry and pleasant promenade for the citizens. I am no great antiquarian, but I believe those splendid old Romans, who have supplied all Europe with interesting relics, are accountable for the original foundation of A – . Various princes and potentates have added their endeavours, and at present it is, perhaps, the most picturesque old town in England.

      At each step I took, some delicious carved gable or galleried front, overhung the street, mingled with modernised shops, it is true; yet as a whole, charming to my eye, of late accustomed only to the unmitigated squareness of modern brick and modern iron, accompanied, as they are at Carrington, by all the abominations of soi disant civilisation without one of its beauties.

      Over all rose with a grave paternal air the Abbey towers, which seemed to infect the atmosphere of the place with a calm ecclesiastical repose well suited to its aspect; these general views I took in while pursuing my way towards the principal hotel, where I intended to put up more as an excuse for pushing my enquiries than for any other reason. During my way thither, diverted by the various sketchable points I constantly passed, the immense difficulties of my search did not so strikingly present themselves, till, entering the hotel I called for the landlord and the carté, and endeavoured to describe the man with the seals as a most agreeable individual whose acquaintance I wished to renew, but could only remember the first letter of his name; mine host was impenetrable, he knew many who answered to my description; but none I was likely to have met: there was Wilkins, the first butcher in the city; Wiggins, the tobacconist; Dr. Worthington, a highly respectable chemist; Mr. White, the methodist parson? No, no, it could be none of these. What! my beautiful incognita under the chaperonage of a butcher, a tobacconist, or a chemist. The landlord was departing, when a sudden spasm of memory seemed to seize him, "Could it be Winter? There was a very pleasant gentleman of that name lived in the Abbey garden; he painted pictures, grand pictures, and had a nice farm in right of his wife?" "Was he a gentleman?" "Oh yes, he used often to dine at the Dean's, and sometimes with the Bishop. Mr. Winter was thought a deal of?"

      "Perhaps Winter was the name; well I will try. Let me have dinner at six, and now for the Abbey."

      I spent two or three hours very agreeably in exploring the aisles and passages and beautiful choir of this irregular but impressive old pile, feeling the deep effect which may be produced by the simple sense of weight and size. The Town Hall, quaint enough, a subterranean chapel, the remains of the castle and a Roman bath, made up the sum of sight seeing, and still I pondered on the chances of "Winter" turning out to be the veritable "man with the seals." I walked on the walls and saw Prince Rupert's and King Charles' towers, and finally asked my way to the Abbey garden; it was a good sized square, near the Cathedral, full of substantial houses, and walking round I saw the name of J. Winter on the hall door of one of them. Should I knock? No, for that beautiful girl was not their daughter; indeed she seemed to exercise more authority over them than they over her, and