That was the question for them all—where to go? London was a large place; and to set out to look for a young lady in it, not knowing where to look, was as bad as looking for the needle in the bottle of hay.
“She may be at that villain’s place,” panted Sir Dace, whose breath seemed to be all wrong. “Where does he live? You know, I suppose,” appealing to Jack.
“No, I don’t,” said Jack. “But I can find out. I dare say it is in Ship Street. Most of——”
“Where is Ship Street?” interrupted the Squire, looking more helpless than a lunatic.
“Ship Street, Tower Hill,” explained Jack; and I dare say the Squire was as wise as before. “Quite a colony of officers live there, while their vessels are lying in St. Katherine’s Docks. Ship Street lies handy, you see; they have to be on board by six in the morning.”
“I knew a young fellow who lodged all the way down at Poplar, because it was near to his ship,” contended the Squire.
“No doubt. His ship must have been berthed in the East India Docks; they are much further off. I will go away at once, then. But,” added Jack, arresting his steps, and turning to Sir Dace, “don’t you think it may be as well to question the household? Your daughter may have left some indication of her movements.”
Jack’s thought was not a bad one. Coralie rang the bell for their own maid, Esther, a dull, silent kind of young woman. But Esther knew nothing. She had not helped Miss Verena to dress that evening, only Miss Coralie. Miss Verena said she did not want her. She believed Maria saw her go out.
Maria, the housemaid, was called: a smart young woman, with curled hair and a pink bow in her cap. Her tale was this. While the young ladies were dressing for dinner, she entered the drawing-room to attend to the fire, and found it very low. She went on her knees to coax it up, when Miss Verena came in in her white petticoat, a little shawl on her neck. She walked straight up to Miss Fontaine’s work-box, opened it and shut it, and then went out of the room again.