here was before my eyes the sight of his haggard and enraged
face, as he struggled to get free from the policeman. When he was sober
would he recollect all that had taken place, and go to make inquiries
after me at Ridley's agency-office? Dr. John Senior had said he had
followed me from there. I scarcely believed he would. Yet there was a
chance of it, a deadly chance to me. If so, the sooner I could fly from
London and England the better.

I felt safer when the cabman set me down at the house where I lodged,
and I ran up-stairs to my little room. I kindled the fire, which had
gone out during my absence, and set my little tin tea-kettle upon the
first clear flame which burned up amid the coal. Then I sat down on my
box before it, thinking.

Yes; I must leave London. I must take this situation, the only one open
to me, in a school in France. I should at least be assured of a home for
twelve months; and, as the clerk had said, I should perfect myself in
French and gain a referee. I should be earning a character, in fact. At
present I had none, and so was poorer than the poorest servant-maid. No
character, no name, no money; who could be poorer than the daughter of
the wealthy colonist, who had owned thousands of acres in Adelaide? I
almost laughed and cried hysterically at the thought of my father's vain
care and provision for my future.

But the sooner I fled from London again the better, now that I knew my
husband was somewhere in it and might be upon my track. I unfolded the
paper on which was written the name of the lady to whom I was to apply.
Mrs. Wilkinson. 19 Bellringer Street. I ran down to the sitting-room, to
ask my landlady where it was, and told her, in my new hopefulness, that
I had heard of a situation in France. Bellringer Street was less than a
mile away, she said. I could be there before seven o'clock, not too late
perhaps for Mrs. Wilkinson to give me an interview.

A thick yellow fog had come in with nightfall--a fog that could almost
be tasted and smelt--but it did not deter me from my object. I inquired
my way of every policeman I met, and at length entered the street. The
fog hid the houses from my view, but I could see that some of the lower
windows were filled with articles for sale, as if they were shops
struggling into existence. It was not a fashionable street, and Mrs.
Wilkinson could not be a very aristocratic person.

No. 19 was not difficult to find, and I pulled the bell-handle with a