But Rawson-Clew did not want to see Mrs. Polkington; she, he was nearly sure, represented the aspiring side of the family, not the one to whom Julia would turn in straits.  The improved look of the house and the servant suggested that the family was hard at work aspiring just now, and so less likely than ever to be ready to welcome the girl, or anxious to give true news of her if they had any to give.  Captain Polkington, who no one could connect with the ascent of the social ladder, might possibly know something; at all events, there was a better chance of it, and he certainly could very easily be made to tell anything he did know.

“When do you expect Captain Polkington home?” he asked.

“Not for a month or more, I believe, sir,” was the answer; “he is in London just now.”

Rawson-Clew asked for his address; it occurred to him that Julia might have gone to her father; it really seemed very probable.  He got the address in full, and went away, but without leaving any name to puzzle and tantalise Mrs. Polkington.  Of course she was puzzled and tantalised when the maid told her of the visitor.  From past experience, she expected something unpleasant of his coming, even though the description sounded favourable; but, as she heard no more of it, she forgot all about him in the course of time.

It was on the next afternoon that Rawson-Clew drove to 31 Berwick Street.  There are several Berwick Streets in London, and, though the address given was full enough for the postal authorities, the cabman had some difficulty in finding it, and went wrong before he went right.  It was a dingy street, and not very long; it had an unimportant, apologetic sort of air, as if it were quite used to being overlooked.  The houses were oldish, and very narrow, so that a good many were packed into the short length; the pavement was narrow, too, and so were the windows; they, for the most part, were carefully draped with curtains of doubtful hue.  Some were further guarded from prying eyes by sort of gridirons, politely called balconies, though, since the platform had been forgotten, and only the protecting railings were there hard up against the glass, the name was deceptive.

The hansom came slowly down the street, the driver scanning the frequent doors for 31.  He overlooked it by reason of the fact that the number had been rubbed off, but finally located it by discovering most of the numbers above and below.  Rawson-Clew got out and rang.  In course of time—­rather a long time—­the door was opened to him by the landlady—­that same landlady who had confided to Mr. Gillat the desirability of having a good standing with the butcher.

“Cap’ain Polkington?” she said, in answer to Rawson-Clew’s inquiry.  “I don’t know whether he’s in or not; you’d better go up and see; one of ’em’s there, anyhow.”

She stood back against the wall, and Rawson-Clew came in.

“Up-stairs,” she said; “second door you come to.”