stern up, its head down, its forehead
wrinkled, and the long drapery of its ears and flews hanging in folds
about its face. In a moment it was gone, its mellow note was dying away
in the neighbouring streets, and a gang of ruffians were racing after it.
"That'll find the feller if he's in London!" somebody shouted; it was the
man with the bandaged forehead--and there were yells of fiendish
laughter.

Glory's head was going round, and she was holding on to Rosa's arm with a
convulsive grasp.

"The cowards!" she cried. "To use that poor creature's devotion to its
master for their own inhuman ends--it's cowardly, it's brutal,
it's----Oh, oh, oh!"

"Come, dear," said Rosa, and she dragged Glory away.

They went back through Broad Sanctuary. Neither spoke, but both were
thinking: "He has gone to the monastery. He intends to stay there until
the storm is over." At Westminster Bridge they parted. "I have somewhere
to go," said Rosa, turning down to the Underground. "She is going to
Bishopsgate Street," thought Glory, and they separated with constraint.

Returning to Clement's Inn, Glory found a letter from Drake:

"Dear Glory: How can I apologize to you for nay detestable behaviour of
last night? The memory of what passed has taken all the joy out of the
success upon which everybody is congratulating me. I have tried to
persuade myself that you would make allowances for the day and the
circumstances and my natural excitement. But your life has been so
blameless that it fills me with anguish and horror to think how I exposed
you to misrepresentation by allowing you to go to that place, and by
behaving to you as I did when you were there. Thank God, things went no
farther, and some blessed power prevented me from carrying out my threat
to follow you. Believe me, you shall see no more of men like Lord Robert
Ure and women like his associates. I despise them from my heart, and
wonder how I can have tolerated them so long. Do let me beg the favour of
a line consenting to allow me to call and ask your forgiveness. Yours
most humbly,

"F. H. N. Drake."

Glory slept badly that night, and as soon as Liza was stirring she rang
for the newspaper.

"Didn't ye 'ear the dorg, mum?" said Liza.

"What dog?"

"The Farver's dorg. It was scratching at the front dawer afore I was up
this morning. 'It's the milk,' sez I. But the minute I opened the dawer
up it came ter the drawerin' room and went snuffling rahnd everywhere."

"