a man run across the platform and leap into the up train
just as the carriages were moving away. He remarked that the man was
bareheaded, and wore his clothes awry, and that a rent near the collar
of his long frieze ulster exposed a strip of red flannel lining. He
thought he knew him.

The train had barely cleared the platform when two men ran up and came
suddenly to a stand in front of the porter.

"Gone!" said one of them, with vexation.

"That would be the 11:35," said the other, "to King's Cross. Did any one
get into it here, porter?"

"Yes, sergeant--Drayton, of the Hawk and Heron," said the porter.

"Your next up is 11:45 to St. Pancras?"

"Yes, sir, due at twelve."

"Is it prompt?"

"To the second."

The two men faced about.

"Time enough yet," said one.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The cab that drove Mrs. Drayton into London carried with it a world of
memories. Thought in her old head was like the dip of a sea-bird in the
sea--now here, now there, now a straight flight, and now a backward
swirl. As she rattled over the dark roads of Child Hill and the New End,
she puzzled her confused brain to understand the business on which she
had been sent. Why had the gentleman been brought out to Hendon? Why,
being ill, was he so soon to be removed? Why, being removed, was he not
put back into this cab, and driven to the station for Cumberland? What
purpose could be served by sending her to the convent for the
gentleman's wife, when the gentleman himself might have been driven
there? Why was the lady in a convent? The landlady pursed up her lips
and contracted her wrinkled brows in a vain endeavor to get light out of
the gloom of these mysteries.

The thought of the gentleman lying ill at her house suggested many
thoughts concerning her son. Paul was not her son, and his name was not
Drayton. Whose son he was she never knew, and what his name was she had
never heard. But she had fixed and done for him since he was a baby, and
no mother could have loved a son more than she had loved her Paul. What
a poor, puling little one he was, and how the neighbors used to shake
their heads and say:

"You'll never rear it; there's a fate on it, poor, misbegotten mite!"

That was thirty long years ago, and now Paul was the lustiest young man
in Hendon. Ah! it was not Hendon then, but London, and her husband, the
good man, was alive and hearty.

"It'll thrive yet, Martha," he would say, and the little one would seem
to