Not in the crowded thoroughfares, to begin with.  Not viewing the objects of interest in the Minster, for it was now past the hour at which the cathedral could be seen.  Was she in the waiting-room at the railway?  She would hardly run that risk.  Was she in one of the hotels?  Doubtful, considering that she was entirely by herself.  In a pastry-cook’s shop?  Far more likely.  Driving about in a cab?  Possible, certainly; but no more.  Loitering away the time in some quiet locality, out-of-doors?  Likely enough, again, on that fine autumn evening.  The captain paused, weighed the relative claims on his attention of the quiet locality and the pastry-cook’s shop; and decided for the first of the two.  There was time enough to find her at the pastry-cook’s, to inquire after her at the principal hotels, or, finally, to intercept her in Mr. Huxtable’s immediate neighborhood from seven to eight.  While the light lasted, the wise course was to use it in looking for her out-of-doors.  Where?  The Esplanade was a quiet locality; but she was not there—­not on the lonely road beyond, which ran back by the Abbey Wall.  Where next?  The captain stopped, looked across the river, brightened under the influence of a new idea, and suddenly hastened back to the ferry.

“The Walk on the Walls,” thought this judicious man, with a twinkle of his party-colored eyes.  “The quietest place in York; and the place that every stranger goes to see.”

In ten minutes more Captain Wragge was exploring the new field of search.  He mounted to the walls (which inclose the whole western portion of the city) by the North Street Postern, from which the walk winds round until it ends again at its southernly extremity in the narrow passage of Rosemary Lane.  It was then twenty minutes to seven.  The sun had set more than half an hour since; the red light lay broad and low in the cloudless western heaven; all visible objects were softening in the tender twilight, but were not darkening yet.  The first few lamps lit in the street below looked like faint little specks of yellow light, as the captain started on his walk through one of the most striking scenes which England can show.

On his right hand, as he set forth, stretched the open country beyond the walls—­the rich green meadows, the boundary-trees dividing them, the broad windings of the river in the distance, the scattered buildings nearer to view; all wrapped in the evening stillness, all made beautiful by the evening peace.  On his left hand, the majestic west front of York Minster soared over the city and caught the last brightest light of heaven on the summits of its lofty towers.  Had this noble prospect tempted the lost girl to linger and look at it?  No; thus far, not a sign of her.  The captain looked round him attentively, and walked on.