(on which day, when practicable, Mr. Trefalden
dismissed his clerks at five o'clock), Abel
Keckwitch pushed forward with his work; closed
the office precisely as St. Dunstan's clock was
striking; and, instead of trudging, as usual,
direct to Pentonville, turned his face westward,
and hailed the first Hammersmith omnibus that
came by.

It was a lovely afternoon; warm, sunny,
summerlike. Mr. Trefalden's head clerk knew
that the Park trees were in all the beauty of
their early leafage, and that the air beyond
Charing-Cross would be delicious; and he was
sorely tempted to take a seat on the roof.  But
prudence prevailed.  To risk observation would
be to imperil the very end for which he was
working; so, with a sigh, he gave up the air
and the sunshine, and took an inside place next
the door.

The omnibus soon filled, and, once closely
packed, rattled merrily on, till it drew up for
the customary five minutes' rest at the White
Horse Cellar.  Then, of course, came the well-
known newsvendor with the evening papers;
and the traditionary old lady who has always
been waiting for the last three-quarters of an
hour; and the conductor's vain appeal to the
gallantry of gentlemen who will not go outside
to oblige a lady—would prefer, in fact, to see
a dozen ladies boiled first.

This interlude played out, the omnibus
rattled on again to the corner of Sloane-street,
where several passengers alighted; and thence
proceeded at a sober, leisurely rate along the
Kensington-road, with the green, broad Park
lying all along to the right, and row after row
of stately terraces to the left.

"Put me down, conductor," said Mr.
Keckwitch, "at the first turning beyond Elton
House."

He had weighed every word of this apparently
simple sentence, and purposely waited till the
omnibus was less crowded, before delivering it.
He knew that the Kensington-road, taken from
the point where Knightsbridge is supposed to
end, up to that other point where Hammersmith
is supposed to begin, covers a fair three miles
of ground; and he wanted to be set down as
near as possible to the spot of which he was in
search.  But then it was essential that he
should not seem to be looking for Elton House,
or going to Elton House, or inquiring about
Elton House in any way; so he worded his
little speech with an ingenuity that was quite
masterly as far as it went.

"Elton House, sir?" said the conductor.
"Don't know it.  What's the name of the
street?"

Mr. Keckwitch took a letter from his pocket,
and affected to look for the address.

"Ah!" he replied, refolding it with a
disappointed air, "that I cannot tell you. My
directions only say, 'the first turning beyond
Elton House.'  I am a stranger to this part of
London, myself."

The conductor scratched his ear, looked
puzzled, and applied to the driver.

"'Arry," said he.  "Know Elton House?"

"Elton House?" repeated the driver."  Can't
say I do."

"I think I have heard the name," observed
a young man on the box.

"I'm sure I've seen it somewhere," said
another on the roof.

And this was all the information to be had
on the subject.

Mr. Keckwitch's ingenious artifice had failed.
Elton House was evidently not to be found
without inquiry —therefore inquiry must be
made.  It was annoying, but there was no help
for it.  Just as he had made up his mind to
this alternative, the omnibus reached
Kensington-gate, and the conductor put the same
question to the toll-taker that he had put to the
driver.

"Davy—know Elton House?"

The toll-taker—a shaggy fellow, with a fur
cap on his head and a straw in his mouth—
pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and
replied,

"Somewhere down by Slade's-lane, beyond
the westry."

On hearing which, Mr. Keckwitch's countenance
brightened, and he requested to be set
down at Slade's-lane, wherever that might be.

Slade's-lane proved to be a narrow, winding,
irregular by-street, leading out from the high
road, and opening at the further end upon fields
and market-gardens.  There were houses on
only one side; and on the other, high walls,
with tree-tops peeping over, and here and there
a side-door.

The dwellings in Slade's-lane were of different
degrees of smallness; scarcely two of the same
height; and all approached by little slips of
front garden, more or less cultivated.  There
were lodgings to let, evidences of humble trades,
and children playing about the gardens and
door-steps of most of them. Altogether, a
more unlikely spot for William Trefalden to
reside in could scarcely have been selected.

Having alighted from the omnibus at the top
of this street, Mr. Keckwitch, after a hurried
glance to left and right, chose the wall side, and
walked very composedly along, taking rapid
note of each door that he passed, but looking
as stolid and unobservant as possible.

The side-doors were mostly painted of a dull
green, with white numerals, and were evidently
mere garden entrances to houses facing in an
opposite direction.

All at once, just at that point where the lane
made a sudden bend to the right and turned off
towards the market gardens, Mr. Keckwitch
found himself under the shadow of a wall
considerably higher than the rest, and close against
a gateway flanked by a couple of stone pillars.
This gate occupied exactly the corner where
the road turned, so that it blunted the angle, as
it were, and commanded the lane in both
directions.  It was a wooden gate —old,
ponderous, and studded with iron bosses, just wide
enough, apparently, for a carriage to drive
through, and many feet higher than it was wide.