beating heavily, and her voice trembling
as a maid opened the door and looked at her a moment.

"Come this way," she said, certain it must be a lady,--a visitor from
the country, perhaps; and Nelly followed her into a back drawing-room,
where a lady sat with a baby on her lap, and two or three children about
her. A little boy ran forward, then stood still, his frightened,
surprised eyes on Nelly's eyes, which were fixed upon him in terror.

"Whose is he?--whose?" she stammered.

"He is Herbert Stanley, junior," the lady said with a smile. "I'm Mrs.
Stanley. Good Heaven! what is it?"

Nelly had stood for a moment, her hands reaching out blindly, the card
with its name and number still in them.

"I must go," she said. "I must look for the real Herbert. This is
another." She fell as the words ended, still holding the card tight; and
when they had revived her, only shook her head as questions were asked.
The boy stood looking at her with his father's eyes. There could be no
doubt. Nelly rose and looked around; then, with no word to tell who she
might be, went out into the night. She crossed the street, and stood
hesitating; and as she stood a figure came swiftly down the street on
the other side, and ran up the steps of the house she had left. There
was no doubt any more; and with a long, bitter cry Nelly fled toward the
river. There was no pause. She knew the way well, and if she had not,
instinct would have led her, and did lead, through narrow alleys and
turnings till the embankment was reached. No stop, even then. A
policeman saw the flying figure, and a man who tried to hinder her heard
the words, "I shall never be a lady now," but that was all; and when he
saw her face again the river had done its work, and the story was plain,
though for its inner pages only the man who was her murderer has the
key.

CHAPTER VIII.

LONDON SHIRT-MAKERS.

Bloomsbury has a cheerful sound, and, like Hop Vine Garden and Violet
Lane, and other titles no less reassuring, seems to promise a breath of
something better than the soot-laden atmosphere offered by a London
winter. But Hop Vine Garden is but a passage between a line of old
buildings, and ends in a dark court and a small and dirty "public," the
beer-pots of which hold the only suggestion of hops to be discovered.
Violet Lane is given over to cat's-meat and sausage makers, the
combination breeding painful suspicions in the seeker's mind, and
Bloomsbury has long sinc