"It's number fourteen, St. Olave's Terrace, Old Kent Road."
"Thank you."
Mattie turned away, and ran down the fore court at a rapid pace.
"Well—I never!" ejaculated the amazed domestic. "What's Mr. Darcy gone and done, I wonder!"
Mattie darted backward on her homeward route; her plans of action were at sea now; she only wished to know the worst, and feel the strength to face it for others' sakes, not for her own. There were an old man and an old woman to comfort in their latter days, to become a daughter to in the place of her who had been spirited away—give her strength to solace them in the deep misery upon its way.
People were stirring in the streets although the day was dark, and the sky above still full of stars. Mattie made many inquiries, and at last found St. Olave's Terrace, a row of large, gloomy houses, of red brick. At No. 14 Mattie knocked long and vigorously, until a window was opened in the first floor, and a boy's head protruded—the unkempt head of a page.
"What's the row down there?" he shouted.
"Mr. Darcy—is he at home?"
"He ain't at home—he didn't come back last night."
"Are you sure?—are you quite sure?"