e girl could have echoed that wish, but eighteen months of bullying
had cowed and all but broken her spirit.

"You are a stone around my neck," said the man bitterly. "I have to hide
you, and all the time I'm in a fret as to whether you will give me away
or not. I am going to keep you under my eye now," he said. "You know a
little too much about me."

"I should never say a word against you," protested the girl.

"I hope, for your sake, you don't," was the grim reply.

The conversation slackened from this moment until the girl plucked up
courage to ask where they were going.

"Wait and see," snapped the man, but added later: "You are going to a
much nicer home than you have ever had in your life, and you ought to be
very thankful."

"Indeed I am, dear," said the girl earnestly.

"Don't call me 'dear,'" snarled her husband.

The cab took them to Camden Town, and they descended in front of a
respectable-looking house in a long, dull street. It was too dark for
the girl to take stock of her surroundings, and she had scarcely time to
gather her parcels together before the man opened the door and pushed
her in.

The cab drove off, and a motor cyclist who all the time had been
following the taxi, wheeled his machine slowly from the corner of the
street where he had waited until he came opposite the house. He let down
the supports of his machine, went stealthily up the steps, and flashed a
lamp upon the enamel numbers over the fanlight of the door. He jotted
down the figures in a notebook, descended the steps again, and, wheeling
his machine back a little way, mounted and rode off.

Half an hour later another cab pulled up at the door, and a man
descended, telling the driver to wait. He mounted the steps, knocked,
and after a short delay was admitted.

"Hello, Crawley!" said the man who had opened the door to him. "How goes
it?"

"Rotten," said the newcomer. "What do you want me for?"

His was the voice of an uncultured man, but his tone was that of an
equal.

"What do you think I want you for?" asked the other savagely.

He led the way to the sitting room, struck a match, and lit the gas. His
bag was on the floor. He picked it up, opened it, and took out a flask
of whisky which he handed to the other.

"I thought you might need it," he said sarcastically.

Crawley took the flask, poured out a stiff tot, and drank it at a gulp.
He was a man of fifty, dark and dour. His face was lined and tanned as
one who