essed if I know, sir!" was the husky answer, coming from under the
heavy folds of a cravat.

"Boy," he called again, "where are we? Is this Oxford Circus?"

"No, no, sir," responded the sharp voice of the London _gamin_. "We
ain't 'alf way up Regent Street yet!"

He shut the window.

"At this rate, goodness only knows when you'll ever get home," he said
to her. "You should have stopped at the theatre."

"Oh, I don't mind," said she, cheerfully. "It's an adventure. It's
something to be talked of afterwards. I shouldn't wonder if the
theatrical papers got hold of it--just the kind of paragraph to go the
round--Harry Thornhill and Grace Mainwaring lost in a fog together. No,
I don't mind. I'm very well off. But fancy some of those poor girls
about the theatre, who must be trying to get home on foot. No
four-wheeled cabs for them; no companion to keep up their spirits. I
sha'n't forget your kindness, Mr. Moore."

Indeed, Lionel was much more anxious than she was. He would rather have
done without that paragraph in the newspapers. All his senses were on
the rack; and yet he could make out absolutely nothing of his
whereabouts in this formless void of a world, with its opaque
atmosphere, its distant calls, inquiries, warnings, its murky
lamp-lights that only became visible when they were over one's head.
Miss Burgoyne seemed to be well content, to be amused even. She liked to
see her name in the newspapers. There would be a pretty little paragraph
to get quoted in gossippy columns, even if she and her more anxious
fellow-adventurer did not reach home till breakfast-time.

The link-boys certainly deserved the very substantial reward that Lionel
bestowed on them; for when, after what seemed interminable hours--with
all kinds of stoppages and inquiries in this Egyptian darkness--the cab
came to a final halt, and when Miss Burgoyne had been piloted across the
pavement, she declared that here, indubitably, was her own door. Indeed,
at this very moment it was opened, and there was a glimmer of a candle
in the passage.

"No, Mr. Moore," she said, distinctly, when Lionel came back after
paying the cabman, "you are not going off like that, certainly not. You
must be starving; you must come up-stairs and have something to eat and
drink." "Jim," she said, addressing her brother, who was standing there,
candle in hand, "have you left any supper for us?"

"I haven't touched a thing yet," said he. "I've been waiting for you I
do