“With submission, Sir Percy, but Chockey does nothing at all but cry out her eyes from morning till night, and went on her knees a-beseechin’ me to find Her Ladyship, which all I could coax out of her by my best endeavors at wheedlin’ the seck, Sir, was that she last saw Her Ladyship standin’—”
“Where! where?” gasps Sir Percy, seizing Mr. Grigson by the arm with a grip of steel.
“Before the door of Lord Kennaston’s lodgin’s, Sir, in Lark Lane—a—”
“Yes? yes? go on!” with glaring, gazing eyes fixed on his man’s ruddy visage.
“A-talkin’, Sir, to some one a-sittin’ inside of a most elegant chair!”
“Did she see the man’s face?” he asks tensely.
“No, Sir Percy; but Her Ladyship bade Chockey go home and not tarry for her, and make such excuse to His Lordship as you have learned before. And, asking your pardon humbly, Sir, Mistress Chockey is of the opinion that her young Lady got into that chair and was carried off, a willin’ wictim, Sir, to the h’altar, and married to the contents of the chair, Sir, afore that wery noon.”
“Damn Chockey and her opinions!” mutters Sir Percy, under his breath, picking up his hat from the table and rushing into the street, nigh to choking with his emotions and his despair.
He turned the corner, almost knocking over a couple of link-boys in his path, tossed them some pennies for their tumble, and into Piccadilly.
“Fare, Sir? fare, Your Honor? fare, Your Lordship?” cry a half-dozen of ’em, and he jumps into a hackney chaise purposeless.