"Well, neither of these names can possibly be converted into Kershaw. I am sorry I troubled you."
"No trouble at all, sir."
Patiently, though anxiously, Wilton went from butcher to baker, from baker to butterman, from butterman to milkshop, until he suddenly exclaimed at his own stupidity, as his eye was caught by a conspicuous brass plate bearing the inscription, "Mr. Mayers, Gas-Inspector." "By Jove!" cried Wilton, aloud, "that is the fellow to know every house in the parish. Why did I not think of a gas-inspector before?"
He rang, and a smart young woman appeared at the door in a few moments.
In his uncertainty whether he was speaking to the wife or the handmaid of Mayers, Wilton politely raised his hat, and asked if he could see the master of the house.
"I am very sorry, sir, he is out, and will not be here till tea-time."
"And when will that be?" asked the anxious querist, smiling blandly.
"Oh, not till half-past five. Could I give any message?" replied the lady, much impressed by the grand air and chivalrous courtesy of her interlocutor.
"I am afraid I must trouble Mr. Mayers myself. I shall not detain him beyond a moment or two, if he will be so good as to see me about half-past five."