a Polkington was not at home," she said, and, in answer to
his inquiry when she was expected, informed him that she did not know.

"There is no talk of her coming home, sir," she said; "she is abroad,
I think; she has been gone some time."

"Since when?"

The girl did not know. "In the spring, I think, sir," she said; "she
has not been here all the summer."

Then, it seemed, his first suspicion was correct; Julia had not gone
home; for some reason or another she was not able to return.

"Is Captain Polkington in?" he asked.

He was not; there was no one at home now; but Mrs. Polkington would be
in in about an hour. The maid added the last, feeling sure her
mistress would be sorry to let such a visitor slip.

But Rawson-Clew did not want to see Mrs. Polkington; she, he was
nearly sure, represented the aspiring side of the family, not the one
to whom Julia would turn in straits. The improved look of the house
and the servant suggested that the family was hard at work aspiring
just now, and so less likely than ever to be ready to welcome the
girl, or anxious to give true news of her if they had any to give.
Captain Polkington, who no one could connect with the ascent of the
social ladder, might possibly know something; at all events, there
was a better chance of it, and he certainly could very easily be made
to tell anything he did know.

"When do you expect Captain Polkington home?" he asked.

"Not for a month or more, I believe, sir," was the answer; "he is in
London just now."

Rawson-Clew asked for his address; it occurred to him that Julia might
have gone to her father; it really seemed very probable. He got the
address in full, and went away, but without leaving any name to puzzle
and tantalise Mrs. Polkington. Of course she was puzzled and
tantalised when the maid told her of the visitor. From past
experience, she expected something unpleasant of his coming, even
though the description sounded favourable; but, as she heard no more
of it, she forgot all about him in the course of time.

It was on the next afternoon that Rawson-Clew drove to 31 Berwick
Street. There are several Berwick Streets in London, and, though the
address given was full enough for the postal authorities, the cabman
had some difficulty in finding it, and went wrong before he went
right. It was a dingy street, and not very long; it had an
unimportant, apologetic sort of air, as if it were quite used to being
overlooked. The houses we