told the inspector of her decision.

"Very well. Your name, please?"

"Mavis Kenrick."

"Mrs," he wrote, as he glanced at the wedding ring which she now wore
on her finger.

"What address, please?" was his next question.

"I haven't one at present."

The man looked at her in surprise, at which Mavis explained how she had
come from Melkbridge the day before.

"At least you can give us your husband's address."

"He's abroad," declared Mavis, with as much resolution as she could
muster.

"Then you might give me the address of your friends in Melkbridge."

"To write to?" asked Mavis.

"In case it should be necessary."

Mavis was at once aware of the inconvenient consequences to which an
application for references to anyone at Melkbridge would give rise,
especially as her name and state were alike incorrectly given. She
hesitated for a few moments before telling the inspector that,
disliking the publicity of the police court, she would prefer to
instruct a solicitor. As she left the station, she would have felt
considerably crestfallen, had she not been faint from want of food. She
dragged her way to a tea-shop, to feel the better for a cup of tea and
some toast. The taste of the room in which she had passed the night
still fouled her mouth; its stench clung to her clothes. She asked her
way to the nearest public baths, where she thought a shilling well
spent in buying the luxury of a hot bath. Her next concern was to seek
out a solicitor who would assist her to recover her stolen property.
She had a healthy distrust of the tribe, and was wondering if, after
all, it would not have been better to have risked the inspector's
writing to any address she may have given at Melkbridge, rather than
trust any chance lawyer with the matter, when she remembered that her
old acquaintance, Miss Meakin, was engaged to a solicitor's clerk. She
resolved to seek out Miss Meakin, and ask her to get her betrothed's
advice and assistance. As she did not know Miss Meakin's present
address, she thought the quickest way to obtain it was to call on her
old friend Miss Nippett at Blomfield Road, Shepherd's Bush, who kept
the register of all those who attended "Poulter's."

She had never quite lost touch with the elderly accompanist; they had
sent each other cards at Christmas and infrequently exchanged picture
postcards, Miss Nippett's invariably being a front view of "Poulter's,"
with Mr Poulter on the steps in such a position as n