We were thunder-struck at the contents of the letter: in point of fact, I had to read it two or three times before I could grasp its contents. Some minutes elapsed before either of us spoke. I sank on my armchair, completely overwhelmed at the misfortune that had happened to them and to me. At length Maxwell broke the silence.
"We must take steps to find them instantly!"
"But what, in Heaven's name, can we do," said I.
"Advertise; we will also write to the post-office at Chester—it is not improbable that they will think it likely that we have written there, and will make inquiries accordingly."
"But they don't want to hear from us."
"Yes, they do. Besides, if a woman knows, or believes, that a letter is waiting for her at a post-office, she will go and apply for it, whether she wishes to hear from the writer or not."
Maxwell had an intellectual pinnacle of his own, from which he looked down upon woman and her ways. From some cause or other (perhaps owing to its giddy height) it appeared to be unfavourable for minute examination; at all events, woman at large was one of those topics of discussion upon which Maxwell and I seldom agreed. However, I was only too glad to catch at the small crumb of comfort that he offered me, and I agreed that there might be something in that, too.
We hurried off to the house in Essex Street. It was empty, and a torn advertisement pasted near the door, together with the litter and straw on the steps and in
