were kept. "All the information, which our
books can give is heartily at your service," he
said. "After the time that has elapsed, I am
afraid it is the only information we have to
offer you."

The books were consulted, and the entry was
found, expressed as follows:

"3rd March, 1836. Adopted, and removed
from the Foundling Hospital, a male infant,
named Walter Wilding. Name and condition
of the person adopting the child—Mrs. Jane
Ann Miller, widow. Address—Lime-Tree
Lodge, Groombridge Wells. References—the
Reverend John Harker, Groombridge Wells;
and Messrs. Giles, Jeremie, and Giles, bankers,
Lombard-street."

"Is that all?" asked the wine-merchant.
"Had you no after-communication with Mrs.
Miller?"

"None—or some reference to it must have
appeared in this book."

"May I take a copy of the entry?"

"Certainly! You are a little agitated. Let
me make the copy for you."

"My only chance, I suppose," said Wilding,
looking sadly at the copy, "is to inquire at
Mrs. Miller's residence, and to try if her
references can help me?"

"That is the only chance I see at present,"
answered the Treasurer. "I heartily wish I
could have been of some farther assistance to
you."

With those farewell words to comfort him,
Wilding set forth on the journey of
investigation which began from the Foundling
doors. The first stage to make for, was plainly
the house of business of the bankers in
Lombard-street. Two of the partners in the firm
were inaccessible to chance-visitors when he
asked for them. The third, after raising certain
inevitable difficulties, consented to let a clerk
examine the Ledger marked with the initial
letter "M." The account of Mrs. Miller,
widow, of Groombridge Wells, was found.
Two long lines, in faded ink, were drawn across
it; and at the bottom of the page there
appeared this note: "Account closed, September
30th, 1837."

So the first stage of the journey was reached
—and so it ended in No Thoroughfare! After
sending a note to Cripple Corner to inform his
partner that his absence might be prolonged
for some hours, Wilding took his place in the
train, and started for the second stage on the
journey—Mrs. Miller's residence at
Groombridge Wells.

Mothers and children travelled with him;
mothers and children met each other at the
station; mothers and children were in the shops
when he entered them to inquire for Lime-
Tree Lodge. Everywhere, the nearest and
dearest of human relations showed itself
happily in the happy light of day. Everywhere,
he was reminded of the treasured delusion
from which he had been awakened so
cruelly—of the lost memory which had passed
from him like a reflection from a glass.

Inquiring here, inquiring there, he could hear
of no such place as Lime-Tree Lodge. Passing
a house-agent's office, he went in wearily,
and put the question for the last time. The
house-agent pointed across the street to a dreary
mansion of many windows, which might have
been a manufactory, but which was an hotel.
"That's where Lime-Tree Lodge stood, sir,"
said the man, "ten years ago."

The second stage reached, and No Thoroughfare
again!

But one chance was left. The clerical
reference, Mr. Harker, still remained to be found.
Customers coming in at the moment to occupy
the house-agent's attention, Wilding went down
the street, and, entering a bookseller's shop,
asked if he could be informed of the Reverend
John Barker's present address.

The bookseller looked unaffectedly shocked
and astonished, and made no answer.

Wilding repeated his question.

The bookseller took up from his counter a
prim little volume in a binding of sober grey.
He handed it to his visitor, open at the title-
page. Wilding read:

"The martyrdom of the Reverend John
Harker in New Zealand. Related by a former
member of his flock."

Wilding put the book down on the counter.
"I beg your pardon," he said, thinking a little,
perhaps, of his own present martyrdom while
he spoke. The silent bookseller acknowledged
the apology by a bow. Wilding went out.

Third and last stage, and No Thoroughfare
for the third and last time.

There was nothing more to be done; there
was absolutely no choice but to go back to
London, defeated at all points. From time to
time on the return journey, the wine-merchant
looked at his copy of the entry in the Foundling
Register. There is one among the many forms
of despair—perhaps the most pitiable of all—
which persists in disguising itself as Hope.
Wilding checked himself in the act of throwing
the useless morsel of paper out of the carriage
window. "It may lead to something yet," he
thought. "While I live, I won't part with it.
When I die, my executors shall find it sealed
up with my will."

Now, the mention of his will set the good
wine-merchant on a new track of thought,
without diverting his mind from its engrossing
subject. He must make his will
immediately.

The application of the phrase No Thoroughfare
to the case had originated with Mr.
Bintrey. In their first long conference following
the discovery, that sagacious personage had
a hundred times repeated, with an obstructive
shake of the head, "No Thoroughfare, Sir, No
Thoroughfare. My belief is that there is no
way out of this at this time of day, and my
advice is, make yourself comfortable where you
are."

In the course of the protracted consultation, a
magnum of the forty-five-year-old port wine had
been produced for the wetting of Mr. Bintrey's
legal whistle; but the more clearly he saw his
way through the wine, the more emphatically