could
not say.

Everything seemed to have been done, but still day after day Stratton
traversed London streets in a never wearying search, trusting to chance
to help him, though perfectly aware that he might go on for years and
never meet the man he sought.

Chance did aid him at last; for one day he had turned out of Fleet
Street to go northward, and as he passed along the broad highway--
wishing that he could explain everything to Guest and bring other wits
to his help, instead of fighting the weary battle in silence alone--he
suddenly stepped out into the road to cross to the other side, to an old
bookseller's shop, where the man made a specialty of natural history
volumes. It was a shop where he and Brettison had often spent an hour
picking out quaint works on their particular subjects, and he was
thinking that possibly the man might have seen Brettison and be able to
give him some information, when there was the rattle of wheels, a loud
shout, and he sprang out of the way of a fast driven hansom.

The driver yelled something at him in passing, by no means
complimentary; but Stratton hardly heard it. He stood, rooted to the
spot, gazing after the cab; for, in the brief moment, as he started
away, he had caught sight of the pale, worn face of Brettison, whose
frightened, scared gaze had met his. Then he had passed without making
a sign, and Stratton was gazing after the cab in speechless horror, for
upon the roof, extending right across, and so awkwardly placed that the
driver half stood in his seat and rested his hands upon it with the
reins, was a large, awkward-looking deal box, evidently heavy, for the
cab was tilted back and the shafts rose high, as if the balance was
enough to hoist the horse from the pavement.

At last! And that scared look of the pale-faced man, and the strange,
heavy case on the cab-roof, with every suggestion of haste, while he
stood there in the middle of the road as if a victim to nightmare, till
the quickly driven vehicle was too far off for him to read the number.

Suddenly the power to move came back, and, dashing forward in the middle
of the road, Stratton shouted to the man to stop.

"He won't stop--not likely," growled another cabman, who had seen
Stratton's escape. "Shouldn't loaf across the--Here, sir," he cried
suddenly, as a thought flashed across his brain. "Hi! guv'nor; jump
in--I'll ketch him for you."

He whipped his horse up alongside of Stratton, who caught