she gave an address known to her only by
hearsay, that of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association,
and was driven thither in about a quarter of an hour. The shop, with its
windows cunningly laid out to allure the female eye, spread a brilliant
frontage between two much duller places of business; at the doorway
stood a commissionaire, distributing some newly printed advertisements
to the persons who entered, or who paused in passing. Nancy accepted a
paper without thinking about it, and went through the swing doors held
open for her by a stripling in buttons; she approached a young woman at
the nearest counter, and in a low voice asked whether Miss. French was
on the premises.

'I'm not sure, madam. I will inquire at once.'

'She calls me "madam,"' said Nancy to herself whilst waiting. 'So do
shopkeepers generally. I suppose I look old.'

The young person (she honeyed a Cockney twang) speedily came back to
report that Miss. French had left about half-an-hour ago, and was not
likely to return.

'Can you give me her private address?'

Not having seen Miss. French since the latter's unwelcome call in Grove
Lane, she only knew that Beatrice had left De Crespigny Park to inhabit
a flat somewhere or other.

'I wish to see her particularly, on business.'

'Excuse me a moment, madam.'

On returning, the young person requested Nancy to follow her up the
shop, and led into a glass-partitioned office, where, at a table covered
with fashion-plates, sat a middle-aged man, with a bald head of peculiar
lustre. He rose and bowed; Nancy repeated her request.

'Could I despatch a message for you, madam?'

'My business is private.'

The bald-headed man coughed urbanely, and begged to know her name.

'Miss. Lord--of Grove Lane.'

Immediately his countenance changed from deprecating solemnity to a
broad smile of recognition.

'Miss. Lord! Oh, to be sure; I will give you the address at once. Pray
pardon my questions; we have to be so very careful. So many people
desire private interviews with Miss. French. I will jot down the
address.'

He did so on the back of an advertisement, and added verbal directions.
Nancy hurried away.

Another cab conveyed her to Brixton, and set her down before a block
of recently built flats. She ascended to the second floor, pressed the
button of a bell, and was speedily confronted by a girl of the natty
parlour-maid species. This time she began by giving her name, and had
only