The date of the letter was that of the day before. The money had consequently to be paid that very day and it was already past twelve o'clock. If the poor young man could not pay he would at that moment be homeless in the street and maybe arrested for debt and taken to the Fleet or even Newgate. Hadn't she seen the poor starving debtors stretch their hands through the "Debtors' door" in the Old Bailey and beg for alms from the pa.s.sers-by with which to purchase food? She pictured the poor young man going through this humiliation and it made her shudder.

He was so handsome!

And all for the want of a paltry twenty-seven shillings! Twenty-seven shillings? Was not that the exact sum of money in the purse?

"Oh, that must have been for his rent," cried Lavinia, clasping her hands in great distress. "And he gave it to me!"

She was overwhelmed. She must return the money at once. But how? She ran to the door. It was locked sure enough. The window? Absurd. It looked out upon a broad gutter and was three storeys from the street. If it were possible to lower herself she certainly could not do so in the daytime. And by nightfall it would be too late. She sat down on the side of the bed, buried her face in her hands and abandoned herself to despair.

But this feeling did not last long. Lavinia sprang to her feet, flung back her hair and secured it. Then she went once more to the window and clambered out into the broad gutter. She hadn't any clear idea what to do beyond taking stock of her surroundings. She looked over the parapet.

It seemed a fearful depth down to the roadway. Even if she had a rope it was doubtful if she could lower herself. Besides, rarely at any hour even at night was the Old Bailey free from traffic. She would have to think of some other way.

She crept along the gutter in front of the next house. Dirty curtains hung at windows. There was no danger of her being seen even if the room had any occupants. She crawled onward, feeling she was a sort of Jack Sheppard whose daring escapes were still being talked about.

At the next window Lavinia hesitated and stopped. This window had no curtains. The grime of many months, maybe of years, obscured the gla.s.s.

One of the small panes was broken. Gathering courage she craned her head and looked through the opening. The room was empty. The paper on the walls hung in strips. There was a little hole in the ceiling through which the daylight streamed.

If the house should, like the room, be empty! The possibility opened up all kinds of speculation in Lavinia's active brain. Why not explore the premises? Up till now she had forgotten her lost shoe. To pursue her investigations unsuitably dressed as she was would be absurd. Supposing she had a chance of escaping into the street she must be properly garbed.

She did not give herself time to think but hastened back to Hannah's room. She tried on all the shoes she could find. One pair was smaller than the rest. She put on that for the left foot. It was a little too large but near enough. Then she hurried on her hooded cloak and once more tackled the gutter. She was able to reach the window catch by putting her hand through the aperture in the broken pane. In a minute or so she was in the room, flushed, panting, hopeful.

A long, long time must have pa.s.sed since that room had been swept. Flue and dust had acc.u.mulated till they formed a soft covering of nearly a quarter of an inch thick. A fusty, musty smell was in the room, in the air of the staircase, everywhere.

She feared that only the upper part of the house was uninhabited but it was not so. The place was terribly neglected and dilapidated. Holes were in the walls, some of the twisted oak stair-rails had been torn away, patches of the ceiling had fallen. But Lavinia hardly noticed anything as she flew down the stairs. The lock could not be opened from the outside without the key, but inside the handle had but to be pushed back and she was in the street. She pulled her hood well over her head and hastened towards Ludgate Hill. It was not the nearest route to Grub Street which she knew was somewhere near Moorfields, but she dared not pa.s.s her mother's house.

Lavinia knew more about London west of St. Paul's than she did east of it, and she had to ask her way. Grub Street she found was outside the city wall, many fragments of which were then standing, and she had to pa.s.s through the Cripples Gate before she reached the squalid quarter bordering Moor Fields westward, where distressed poets, scurrilous pamphleteers, booksellers' hacks and literary ne'er-do-wells dragged out an uncertain existence.

Lavinia found Fletcher's Court to be a narrow pa.s.sage with old houses dating from Elizabethan times, whose projecting storeys were so close together that at the top floor one could jump across to the opposite side without much difficulty. With beating heart she entered the house, the door of which was open. She met an old woman descending a rickety tortuous staircase and stopped her.

"Can you tell me if Mr. Vane lives here?" said she.

"Well, he do an' he don't," squeaked the old dame. "Leastways he won't be here much longer. He's a bein' turned out 'cause he can't pay his rent, pore young gentleman. We're all sorry for him, so civil spoken and nice to everybody, not a bit like some o' them scribblers as do nothing but drink gin day an' night. Street's full of 'em. I can't make out what they does for a livin'! Scholards they be most of 'em I'm told. Mr.

Vane's lodgin's on the top floor. You goes right up. That's old Sol Moggs' squeak as you can hear. Don't 'ee be afeared of 'im, dearie."

The old woman, who was laden with a big basket and a bundle, went out and Lavinia with much misgiving ascended the stairs. She remembered the name, Solomon Moggs. He was the landlord. If his nature was as harsh and discordant as his voice poor Lancelot Vane was having an unpleasant time.

"Ill, are ye?" she heard Moggs shrieking. "I can't help that. I didn't make you ill, did I? Maybe you was in a drunken brawl last night. It looks like it with that bandage round your head. You scribbling gentry, the whole bunch of ye, aren't much good. I don't see the use of you. Why don't ye do some honest work and pay what you owes? I can't afford to keep you for nothing. Stump up or out ye go neck and crop."

Lavinia ran up the next flight. The landing at the top was low pitched and dark. The only light was that which came from the open door of a front room. In the doorway was a little man in a shabby coat which reached down to his heels. His wig was frowsy, his three-cornered hat was out of shape and he held a big stick with which he every now and then thumped the floor to emphasise his words.

Beyond this unpleasant figure she could see a small untidy room with a sloping roof. The floor, the chairs--not common ones but of the early Queen Anne fashion with leathern seats--an old escritoire, were strewn with papers. The occupant and owner was invisible. But she could hear his voice. He was remonstrating with the little man in the doorway.

Lavinia touched the man on the shoulder. He turned, stared and seeing only a pretty girl favoured her with a leer.

"How much does Mr. Vane owe you?" said Lavinia, c.h.i.n.king the coins.

"Eh, my dear? Are you going to pay his debt? Lucky young man. Nine weeks at three shillings a week comes to twenty-seven shillings. There ought to be a bit for the lawyer who wrote the notice to quit. But I'll let you off that because of your pretty face."

Lavinia counted the money into the grimy outstretched paw. Moggs' face wrinkled into a smirk.

"Much obleeged, my young madam. I'll wager as the spark you've saved from being turned into the street'll thank you more to your liking than an old fellow like me could."

Solomon Moggs made a low bow and was turning away when Lancelot Vane suddenly appeared. His face was very pallid and he clutched the door to steady himself. What with his evident weakness and his bandaged head he presented rather a pitiable picture.

"What's all this?" he demanded. "I'm not going to take your money, madam."

"It's not mine," cried Lavinia in a rather disappointed tone. She could see he did not remember her.

"Faith an' that's gospel truth," chuckled Moggs. "It's mine and it's not going into anybody else's pocket." And he hastily shuffled down the staircase.

Lavinia turned to Vane a little ruffled.

"You don't recollect me," she said. "The money's ours. I didn't want it but you did and so I brought it back. I'm so glad I was in time and that you're rid of that horrid man."

Lancelot Vane stared fixedly at her. The events of the night before were mixed up in his mind and he had but a dim remembrance of the girl's face. Indeed he had caught only a momentary glimpse of it.

"Was it you, madam, who were pursued by those ruffians?" he stammered.

"I'm grateful that you've come to no harm."

"Oh, it was all your doing," cried Lavinia, eagerly, "you were so brave and kind. I was too frightened last night to think of anything but getting away and I didn't thank you. I want to do so now."

"No, no. It's you who should be thanked. Don't stand there, pray. Do come inside. It's a frightfully dirty room but it's the best I have."

"But I--I must get back."

"You're in no hurry, I hope. I've so much I would like to say to you."

"What can you have? We're such strangers," she protested.

"Just now we are perhaps, but every minute we talk together makes us less so. Please enter."

His voice was so entreating, his manner so deferential, she could not resist. She ventured within a few steps and while he cleared a chair from its books and papers her eyes wandered round. One end of the room was curtained off and the opening between the curtains revealed a bed.

The furniture was not what one would expect to find in a garret. It was good and solid but undusted and the upholstery was faded. The general appearance was higgledy-piggledy--hand to mouth domesticity mixed up with the work by which the young man earned, or tried to earn, his living. No signs of a woman's neatness and touches of decoration could be seen.

Lavinia's glances went to the owner of the garret. After all it was only he who was of real interest. She noticed the difficulty he had in lifting a big folio from the chair. He could hardly use his right arm.

She saw his hollow cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes. She hadn't spent years in the streets amongst the poorest not to know that his wistful look meant want of food--starvation may be.

"Won't you sit down?" he said.

She shook her head.

"This belongs to you," she said, holding out his purse. "I'm so sorry it's empty."

"I'm sorry too. You haven't spent a farthing on yourself and I meant it all for you."

"It was very foolish when you wanted money so badly."

"That doesn't matter. You wouldn't have been here now if I hadn't given it you."

Her eyes lighted up. The same thought had crossed her mind.