He arrived in London at last, and the same evening hastened to Belgrave Square; for his thoughts were now, as his journey drew to a close, painfully excited at the near prospect of seeing his landlord. He found the house without difficulty: it was a splendid town-mansion, well befitting a man of large fortune; and Owen experienced an Irishman's gratification in the spacious and handsome building he saw before him. He knocked, at first timidly, and then, as no answer was returned, more boldly; but it was not before a third summons that the door was opened; and an old mean-looking woman asked him what he wanted.
“I want to see the masther, ma'am, av it's plazing to ye!” said Owen, leaning against the door-jamb as he spoke.
“The master? What do you mean?”
“Mr. Leslie himself, the landlord.”
“Mr. Leslie is abroad—in Italy.”
“Abroad! abroad!” echoed Owen, while a sickly faint-ness spread itself through his frame. “He's not out of England, is he?”
“I've told you he's in Italy, my good man.”
“Erra! where's that at all?” cried Owen, despairingly.
“I'm sure I don't know; but I can give you the address, if you want it.”
“No, thank ye, ma'am—it's too late for that, now,” said he. The old woman closed the door, and the poor fellow sat down upon the steps, overcome by this sad and unlooked-for result.