habit of standing to wait for her at the theatre door. Upon
him she could lay her commands with some assurance that they would be
observed, but others were less submissive, and at times had given her
trouble. To be sure, she could always get rid of importunate persons by
the use of her special gift, that primitive sarcasm which few cared to
face for more than a minute or two; but with admirers Polly wished to
be as far as possible gracious, never coming to extremities with one of
them until she was quite certain that she thoroughly disliked him.
Finding the coast clear (which after all slightly disappointed her) she
walked sharply into another street, where she hailed a passing hansom,
and was driven to Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Here, on the quiet pavement shadowed by the College of Surgeons, she
lingered in expectancy. Ten was striking, but she looked in vain for
the figure she would recognize--that of a well-dressed, middle-aged
man, with a white silk comforter about his neck, and drawn up so as to
hide his mouth. Twice she had met him here, and on each occasion he was
waiting for her when she arrived. Five minutes passed--ten minutes. She
grew very impatient and, as a necessary consequence, very angry. To
avoid unpleasant attention from the few people who walked by, she had
to pace backwards and forwards as if going about her business. When the
clocks chimed the first quarter Polly was in a turmoil of anger,
blended with disappointment and apprehension. She could not have made a
mistake. The message she had received was "W. S. T.," which meant
"Wednesday same time." Some accident must have interfered. At twenty
minutes past ten she had lost all hope. She must go home, and wait for
a possible communication on the morrow.

Swinging her skirts, clenching her fists, and talking silently at a
great rate, she walked in the direction of Chancery Lane. At a corner
someone going in the opposite direction caught sight of her and
stopped. Polly was so preoccupied that she would not have noticed the
figure had it merely passed; by stopping it drew her attention, and she
beheld Christopher Parish.

"Why, Miss Sparkes!"

He held out his hand, but to no purpose. Polly had her eyes fixed upon
him, and they flashed with hostility.

"What do you mean by it?"

"Mean by what?"

The young man was astonished; his hand dropped, and he trembled before
her.

"How dare you spy after me? Nasty little wretch!"

"Spy after you, Miss Spa