"How did you know I lived here?" he went on.

"Well I--I opened the other end of the purse and read what was on the papers inside. It was very wrong. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"I'd forgive you anything. You descended upon me like an angel. Not many young ladies of your station would have had the courage to set foot in Grub Street."

A smile trembled on Lavinia's tempting lips.

"My station? What then do you think is my station?"

"How can I tell? I take you to be a lady, madam. I don't want to know any more."

At this Lavinia laughed outright. Her clothes were of good quality and of fashionable cut--the d.u.c.h.ess of Queensberry's maid had seen to that--her manner and air were those of a lady of quality--thanks to Miss Pinwell--but apart from these externals what was she? A coffee shop waitress--a strolling singer--a waif and stray whose mother would not break her heart if she got her living on the streets!

When she thought of the bitter truth the laughing face was clouded.

"I wish I were a lady--a rich one, I mean--for your sake," said she softly. "You look so ill. You ought to have a doctor."

"I ought to have a good many things, I daresay, that I haven't got. I have to do without."

Her eyes drooped. They remained fixed on a little gold brooch fastening her cloak. The brooch was the gift of Dorrimore. The wonder was her mother had not discovered it.

"I must go. I--I've forgotten something."

"But you'll come again, wont you?" said he imploringly. "Though to be sure there's nothing in this hovel to tempt you? Besides, the difference between us----"

"Please don't talk nonsense," she broke in. "Yes, I'll come again soon.

I don't know how long I shall be--a couple of hours perhaps."

"Do you really mean that?" he cried, joyfully.

"Yes, if nothing happens to prevent me. Good-bye for a while."

She waved her hand. He caught the tips of her fingers and kissed them.

One bright smile in response and she was gone.

With her heart fluttering strangely--a fluttering that Dorrimore had never been able to inspire--Lavinia flew down the staircase and sped through the streets in the direction of London Bridge.

CHAPTER VIII

"YOU'VE A MIGHTY COAXING TONGUE"

The shop on London Bridge of Dr. Mountchance, apothecary, astrologer, dealer in curios and sometimes money lender and usurer, was in its way picturesque and quaint, but to most tastes would scarcely be called inviting. Bottles of all shapes and sizes loaded the shelves, mingled with jars and vases from China, Delft ware from Holland and plates and dishes from France, which Dr. Mountchance swore were the handiwork of Palissy, the famous artist-potter. Everything had a thick coating of dust. Dried skins of birds, animals and hideous reptiles hung from the walls and ceiling; a couple of skulls grinned mockingly above a doorway leading into a little room at the rear, and it was difficult to steer one's way between the old furniture, the iron bound coffers and miscellaneous articles which crowded the shop.

In the room behind, chemical apparatus of strange construction was on one table; packets of herbs were on another; a huge tome lay opened on the floor, and books were piled on the chairs. The apartment was a mixture of a laboratory and lumber room. A furnace was in one corner, retorts, test tubes, crucibles, a huge pestle and mortar, jars, bottles were on a bench close handy.

The room was lighted by a window projecting over the Thames, and the roar of the river rushing through the narrow arches and swirling and dashing against the stone work never ceased, though it varied in violence according to wind and tide. The house was a portion of the old chapel of St. Thomas, long since converted from ecclesiastical observances to commercial uses.

Dr. Mountchance, who at this moment was at a table in the centre examining a silver flagon and muttering comments upon it, was a little man about seventy, with an enormous head and a spare body and short legs. His face was wrinkled like a piece of wet shrivelled silk and his skin was the colour of parchment. His eyes, very small and deep-set, were surmounted by heavy brows once black, now of an iron grey. His mouth was of prodigious width, the lips thin and straight and his nose long, narrow and pointed. He wore a dirty wig which was always awry, a faded mulberry coloured coat, and a frayed velvet waistcoat reaching halfway down his thighs. His stockings were dirty and hung in bags about his ankles, his feet were cased in yellow slippers more than half worn out.

Dr. Mountchance's hearing was keen. A footfall in the shop, soft as it was, caused him to look up. He saw a slight girlish figure, her cloak pulled tightly about her, a pair of bright eyes peering from beneath the hood.

The old man gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. Many of his customers were women but he liked them none the more because of their s.e.x. They generally came to sell, not to buy, and most of them knew how to drive a hard bargain. He shuffled into the shop with a scowl on his lined yellow face.

"What d'ye want?" he growled.

Most girls would have been nervous at such a reception. Not so this one.

"I want to sell this brooch. How much will you give me for it?" said she, undauntedly.

"Don't want to buy it. Go somewhere else."

"I shan't. Too much trouble. Besides, you're going to buy it, dear Dr.

Mountchance."

The imploring eyes, the beseeching voice, soft and musical, the modest yet a.s.sured manner, were too much for the old man. Unconscious of the destiny awaiting her, Lavinia was employing the same tenderness of look, the same captivating pathos of tone as when two years later she, as Polly Peachum, sang "Oh ponder well," and won the heart of the Duke of Bolton.

"H'm, h'm," grunted Mountchance, "you pretty witch. Must I humour ye?"

"Of course you must. You're so kind and always ready to help others."

The doctor showed his yellow fangs in a ghastly grin that gave a skull-like look to his dried face.

"Hold thy wheedling tongue, hussy. This trinket--gold you say?"

"Try it, you know better than I."

Dr. Mountchance took the brooch into the inner room, weighed it, tested the metal and returned to the shop.

"I can give you no more than the simple value of the gold. 'Tis not pure--a crown should content ye."

"Well, it doesn't. Do you take me for a cutpurse? I'm not that sort."

"How do I know? You use thieves' jargon. Where did you pick it up?"

Lavinia gave one of her rippling laughs.

"That's my business and not yours. I tell you it's honestly come by and I want a guinea for it. You know it's worth five and maybe more. The man who gave it me--I don't care for him you may like to know--isn't mean.

He'd spend a fortune on me if I'd care to take it but I don't." She tossed her head disdainfully.

"Oh, 'tis from your gallant. Aye, men are easily fooled by bright eyes.

Well--well----"

Lavinia's ingenuous story had its effect. Not a few of Dr. Mountchance's lady customers preferred money to trinkets and he did a profitable trade in buying these presents at his own price. Some of these flighty damsels were haughty and patronising and others were familiar and impudent. The old man disliked both varieties. Lavinia belonged to neither the first nor the second. She was thoroughly natural and the humour lurking in her sparkling eyes was a weapon which few could resist. Dr. Mountchance unclasped a leather pouch and extracted a guinea.