She did not notice him, so absorbed was she in her speculations as how best to invest her capital.

After eyeing her askance for a few minutes, the old gentleman, wishing to break the ice, and not being able to evolve on the spur of the moment anything more original in the way of remarks, said in a smooth and conciliatory voice:

"It is a beautiful day, is it not, my dear?"

She started from her reverie, looked straight at him, instinctively read his meaning, and without a word got up, with proud gesture gathered her shawl around her, and walked away.

Her dream was broken, a chill came over her heart, the incident had made her suddenly realise the horror of her position.

She would find no help from any save from such as this man was. Oh! the cruelty--the wicked cruelty of the city! She shuddered at the picture of her future thus vividly presented to her, and tears, the first for years, came to her eyes.

As miserable as she had but just before been glad, she walked on, in an objectless manner, anywhere. This new wild sensation of freedom had turned her head for the while, and her emotions were intense and rapidly changing to their contraries in an hysterical fashion.

Without knowing how she got there, she again recognised around her the familiar buildings of Fleet Street. She approached her father's office, attracted there by the same sort of fascination that drags the murderer to the scene of his guilt.

Soon she considered how dangerous it was for her to loiter in that neighbourhood. She was aware that she must have been missed by this time; her father had probably made inquiries, had instructed the police, and there were many persons about Ludgate Hill who knew her well by sight.

Feeling hungry she went up a side street near Fetter Lane, and entering a small baker's shop bought a pennyworth of bread, and asked the woman there to give her a gla.s.s of water.

Refreshed by this frugal meal she went down to the Thames Embankment, and sitting on a seat tried to think calmly over her position. She had heard of casual wards where homeless penniless people could get lodging for the night. She thought she would most probably have to seek this shelter at least for this night, for even now it was getting late in the afternoon.

Yes! she would wait till it was dark, and then ask a policeman--she dared not do so in broad daylight--to tell her where there was a casual ward.

And so she sat down on benches, or wandered restlessly up and down the streets until it was dark and the long June day was done, when, dizzy and weary, she was once again treading the pavements of Fleet Street.

The bells of St. Clements had just pealed out ten hours, when the girl of a sudden perceived, hurriedly approaching her, her father.

He had evidently returned from home to find traces of her.

For a moment the shock paralysed her, but only for a moment. To her right was a narrow dark street; she darted in and ran down it with the haste that terror and madness give.

This street, or rather alley, is known as Devereux Pa.s.sage.

On reaching the bottom of it, the poor hunted creature found herself in a sort of cul-de-sac. It was all over. There was no escape. The street ended. On the left were the closed iron gates of the Temple. In front of her was a wall. To the right her flight was also stopped, for there the narrow pa.s.sage that leads off to Ess.e.x Street had wooden barriers placed across it, the pavement being up for repair of drain or water-pipes: so this too seemed to her hurried gaze, and in the dim light, impa.s.sable as the dead wall in front.

She was at bay; trembling, faint, and sick with despair, she looked wildly around for any chance of escape.

She heard the man's step coming down the pa.s.sage--slowly too, with cruel deliberation; her father knew well that there was no way out, that she was a secured prisoner.

There was a doorway by her: she crouched into it, and with her breath bursting out in difficult sobs, and her heart beating as if to break, clung to the door-handle with all her strength. She determined that she would not be torn away. Then her head swam round--the heavy tread approached--she shut her eyes in her agony.

When he was just in front of her the sound of the man's step ceased.

There was a pause before his words came.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE TEMPLE.

A pause of a few seconds only, but seeming long terrible minutes, while she waited for the harsh satirical tones of her father's voice, which she knew so well.

At last the words came.

"You seem to be unwell; can I be of a.s.sistance to you in any way?"

She started, opened her eyes wide, and stared in the speaker's face.

It was not her father!

For it happened that the solicitor had not seen her, and had continued his route along Fleet Street, when she darted into Devereux Court. The steps she had heard behind her were not her father's. The person who had spoken was a stranger, young and of pleasing exterior. It was no other than Mr. Thomas Hudson.

On his way to the Devereux Court entrance to the Temple, he had seen this girl crouching in the doorway. With the gallantry and sympathy of an Irishman, and really thinking that she was ill, he came to the rescue. Not that his motives for this were altogether unselfish. He saw that the girl was young and graceful of form, and her face, he imagined, must be agreeable also, to be consistent with the rest. He had nothing to do for the moment, and was only too glad to fall into an adventure with a pretty woman.

She looked at him wildly for a few seconds, then cried:

"Why, you are not--" and she checked herself.

"No I am not," he promptly replied; "are you afraid of someone then. Is any blackguard following you?"

Her eyes wandered round like those of an animal in presence of a great danger. Weariness and the reaction after her excitement had dulled her courage.

"Yes, I am hunted," she said at last, sadly.

"Hunted! by whom?" asked the barrister, becoming rather suspicious that his new friend might prove to be a runaway pickpocket, or something else bad--"by whom?"

She seemed only then to call her faculties together, to realise that she was talking to, nay, confiding in, a stranger. Her cold collected look returned to her, and it must be confessed that she did not appear nearly as pretty as with her late timid expression.

"Why do you wish to know?"

"Well, I saw that you looked ill, or that you were in fear of something, and I wished to be of service if possible."

She laughed bitterly. "Is that all? Well, I'll answer your question. I'm not running away from the police, but from my stepmother and father. I don't mind telling you," she went on in tones of reckless despair, "I don't see what harm it will do me, or what good it will do you."

"Running away from home!"

"Yes! for good."

"But where are you going?"

"Going--I don't know--to the casual ward I suppose--if--if I can get there."

Mary felt a strange faintness stealing over her, and the young man noticed it.

"You are ill--let me put you into a cab."