On the doorstep of the house where Hilda lodged, stood her landlady giving a piece of her mind to a butcher-boy both as regarded his master’s meat and his personal qualities.  She paused for breath just as Hilda passed up the steps, and, turning, said something that made the latter laugh.  The butcher-boy took the opportunity of beating a rapid retreat, leaving Mrs. Jacobs crowing after him from her own doorstep.  As soon as Hilda had gone into the house, George saw his opportunity.  Advancing politely towards Mrs. Jacobs, he asked her if she was the landlady of the house, and, when she had answered in the affirmative, he made inquiries about apartments.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Jacobs, “but I do not let rooms to single gentlemen.”

“You take too much for granted, ma’am.  I am married.”

She looked at him doubtfully.  “I suppose, sir, you would have no objection to giving a reference.”

“A dozen, if you like, ma’am; but shall we look at the rooms?”

Mrs. Jacobs assented, and they made their way upstairs, George keeping in front.  On the first-floor he saw a pair of lady’s shoes on a mat outside the door, and guessed to whom they belonged.

“Are these the rooms?” he said, laying his hand upon the door-handle.

“No, sir, no, they are Mrs. Roberts’; next floor, please, sir.”

“Mrs. Roberts?—­I suppose the very handsome young lady I saw come into the house.  No offence, ma’am; but a man’s bound to be careful where he brings his wife.  I suppose she’s all right.”

“Lord, yes, poor dear!” answered Mrs. Jacobs, in indignation; “why, they came here straight from St. Jude’s, Battersea, the day they were married; a runaway match, I fancy.”

“That’s all right; she looked charming.  I hope her husband is worthy of her,” remarked George, as he gazed round Mrs. Jacobs’ rooms.

“Well, as to that, he’s handsome enough, for them as likes those black men; but I don’t like people as only comes to visit their lawful wives about twice a month.  But,” suddenly checking herself, “it isn’t any affair of mine.”

“No, indeed, very reprehensible:  I am, as a married man, entirely of your mind.  These are charming rooms, ma’am, charming.  I shall certainly take them if my wife approves; I will let you know by to-morrow’s post—­Jacobs, yes, I have it down.  Good evening, ma’am,” and he was gone.

Instead of going out that evening as he had intended, George sat in the smoking-room of his hotel and thought.  He also wrote a letter which he addressed to Mrs. Bellamy.

Next morning, taking a cab, he drove to St. Jude’s, Battersea, and inspected the register.

Presently he asked for a certified copy of the following entry:  “August 1, 1856.  Philip Caresfoot, bachelor, gentleman, to Hilda von Holtzhausen, spinster (by license).  Signed J. Few, curate; as witness, Fred. Natt, Eliza Chambers.”

That evening Hilda received an anonymous letter, written in a round clerk’s hand, that had been posted in the City.  It was addressed to Mrs. Roberts, and its contents ran thus: