Mr. Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of scene.  What could have happened!  Could Sir Harry be dead?  Could my lady have eloped?  ‘Oh, that horrid Bugles!’ thought he; ‘he looked like a gay deceiver.’  And Mr. Sponge felt as if he had sustained a personal injury.

Just as these thoughts were passing in his mind, a drowsy, slatternly charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bed-gown, opened one of the shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr. Sponge sat, disclosed the contents of the apartment.  The last waxlight was just dying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a table scattered about with claret-jugs, glasses, decanters, pine-apple tops, grape-dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled biscuit-racks—­all the concomitants of a sumptuous entertainment.

‘Sir Harry at home?’ asked Mr. Sponge, making the woman sensible of his presence, by cracking his whip close to her ear.  ‘No,’ replied the dame gruffly, commencing an assault upon the nearest chair with a duster.

‘Where is he?’ asked our friend.

‘Bed, to be sure,’ replied the woman, in the same tone.

[Illustration:  MR. SPONGE’S RED COAT COMMANDS NO RESPECT]

‘Bed, to be sure,’ repeated Mr. Sponge.  ’I don’t think there’s any ‘sure’ in the case.  Do you know what o’clock it is?’ asked he.

‘No,’ replied the woman, flopping away at another chair, and arranging the crimson velvet curtains on the holders.

Mr. Sponge was rather nonplussed.  His red coat did not command the respect that a red coat generally does.  The fact was, they had such queer people in red coats at Nonsuch House, that a red coat was rather an object of suspicion than otherwise.

‘Well, but, my good woman,’ continued Mr. Sponge, softening his tone, ’can you tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell me anything about the hounds?’

‘No,’ growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and knocking the furniture about.

‘I’ll remember you for your trouble,’ observed Mr. Sponge, diving his right hand into his breeches’ pocket.

‘Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,’ observed the woman, now ceasing her evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced and stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window.  She was the under-housemaid’s deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the rough of their work by deputy.  Lady Scattercash was a real lady, and liked to have the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be done by letting the upper servants do nothing.  ‘Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,’ observed the woman.

‘Mr. Bottleends?’ repeated Mr. Sponge; ‘who’s he?’

‘The butler, to be sure,’ replied she, astonished that any person should have to ask who such an important personage was.

‘Can’t you call him?’ asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.