"For your information. I would not mind
what I gave to any one who could put me in the
way of finding where those ladies are gone."

"But I can't tell you what I don't know."

"That's true; but you may as well tell me all
you do."

The girl, still looking at him somewhat doubtfully,
invited him to step inside the passage.

"I can show you the card," she said; "but I
know it's of no use. There was a gentleman
here the other day—he came from a great London
shop, and would have put pounds and pounds of
painting in Miss Rivers's way—and though he
wrote it all down exact, he couldn't find the
place."

And with this she plunged into the little empty
front parlour, and brought out a card on which
were pencilled, in William Trefalden's own hand,
the following words:

Mrs. Rivière,
        Beaufort Villa, St. John's Wood.

Saxon almost started on seeing his cousin's
well-known hand.

"Who wrote this?" he asked, quickly.

"It was Mr. Forsyth that wrote it, after the
ladies were in the cab."

"Mr. Forsyth?" he repeated.

And then the girl, grown suddenly communicative,
went on to say that Mr. Forsyth was a
rich gentleman who, having known "Mr. Rivers"
a great many years ago, had sought the ladies
out, paid enormous prices for Mr. Rivers's
pictures, and induced Mrs. and Miss Rivers to
remove to a pleasanter part of London. Even
in this matter he took all the trouble oil their
hands, and they never so much as saw their new
lodgings before he came to take them there. There
never was such a kind, thoughtful, pleasant
gentleman, to be sure! As for the address, Mrs.
Rivers never thought of it till just at the last
moment, and then Mr. Forsyth wrote it out as
he stood in the passage—the ladies being already
in the fly, and ready to drive off.

"And that is all you know about it?" asked
Saxon, still turning the card over and over.

"Every word."

"I suppose I may keep the card?"

"Oh yes, if you like; but you'll find there's no
such place."

"Did Mrs. Rivière seem to be much worse
before she left here?"

"No. We thought she was better, and so
did Miss Rivers."

Saxon turned reluctantly towards the door.

"Thank you," he said. "I wish you could
have told me more."

"I suppose you are a friend of the family?"
said the girl, inquisitively.

Saxon nodded.

"You—you can't tell me, I suppose, whether
Mr...."

"Forsyth?"

"Ay—whether Mr. Forsyth was engaged to
Miss Rivière?" said he, with some hesitation.

She screwed her mouth up, and jerked her
head expressively.

"They weren't when they left here," she
replied; "but anybody could see how it would be
before long."

Then, seeing the trouble in the young man's
face, she added quickly:

"On his side, you know. He worshipped the
ground Miss Rivers walked upon; but I don't
believe she cared a brass farthing for him."

To which Saxon only replied by thanking her
again, and then turned despondingly away.

He would go to St. John's Wood; but he felt
beforehand that it would be useless. It was to
be expected that William Trefalden would give
a false address. It was, of course, a part of his
plan to do so.

In the midst of these reflections, just as he
had reached the further end of the terrace, the
girl came running after him.

"Sir, sir," she said, breathlessly, "I've just
thought of Doctor Fisher. He was Mrs.
Rivers's doctor, and he'll be sure to know where
they went."

"God bless you for that thought, my girl!"
said Saxon. "Where does he live?"

"I don't know; but it's somewhere about
Camberwell. You'll be sure to find him."

"Yes, yes—easily." And again Saxon dipped
his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket. But the
girl shook her head.

"Lord love you!" said she, "I don't want
any more of your money—you've given me too
much already!"

And with this she laughed, and ran away.

Saxon jumped back into his cab, and desired
to be driven to the first chemist's shop on the
road.

"For the chemists," muttered he to himself
as he rattled along, "are sure to know all about
the doctors."

CHAPTER IXXXVI. DOCTOR FISHER.

Doctor Fisher dwelt in a big, stucco-fronted,
many-windowed house, with gates and a portico
—a strictly professional-looking house that stood
back from the road, as if with a sulky sense of
its own superiority to the humbler dwellings
round about—a house before whose grim portals
no organ-boy would presume to linger, and no
Punch to set up his temporary stage. A solemn-looking
servant in a sad-coloured livery opened
the door, and ushered Saxon to the physician's
presence.

Dr. Fisher was a massive man, with an
important manner, and a deep rolling voice like the
pedal pipes of an organ. He received his visitor
courteously, begged him to be seated, and
replied clearly and readily to all Saxon's inquiries.
Mrs. Rivière was indeed dead. She died about
a fortnight before, and was buried in Norwood
cemetery. The Rivières had removed from
Camberwell about two, or it might be nearly
three, months previous to this catastrophe.
During the first six or eight weeks of her
sojourn at Sydenham, Mrs. Rivière had gained
strength, and was so far improved as to be on
the point of undertaking a voyage to Madeira,