ed her lightly on the shoulder.

"Do you still pin your faith to the man in the street?" said a voice.

And, though she had heard it for the first time that very evening, it
was a voice that Rachel seemed to have known all her life.

CHAPTER VI

A PERIPATETIC PROVIDENCE

"Do you still pin your faith to the man in the street?"

It was Mr. Steel who stood at Rachel's elbow, repeating his question
word for word; but he did not repeat it in the same tone. There was an
earnest note in the lowered voice, an unspoken appeal to her to admit
the truth and be done with proud pretence. And indeed the pride had gone
out of Rachel at sight of him; a delicious sense of safety filled her
heart instead. She was as one drowning, and here was a strong swimmer
come to her rescue in the nick of time. What did it matter who or what
he was? She felt that he was strong to save. Yet, as the nearly drowned
do struggle with their saviours, so Rachel must fence instinctively with
hers.

"I never did pin my faith to him," said she.

"Yet see the risk that you are running! If he turns round--if any one of
them turns round and recognizes you--listen to that!"

It was only the second window, but a third and a fourth followed like
shots from the same revolver. Rachel winced.

"For God's sake, come away!" he whispered, sternly.

And Rachel did come a few yards before a flicker of her spirit called a
halt.

"Why should I run away?" she demanded, in sudden tears of mortification
and of weakness combined. "I am innocent--so why should I?"

"Because they don't like innocent people; and there appear to be no
police in these parts; and if you fall into their hands--well, it would
be better for you if you had been found guilty and were safe and sound
in Newgate now!"

That was exactly what Rachel had felt herself; she took a few steps
more, but still with reluctance and irresolution; and once round the
nearest corner, and out of that hateful street for ever, she turned to
her companion in unconcealed despair.

"But what am I to do?" she cried. "But where am I to turn?"

"Mrs. Minchin," said Steel, "can you not really trust me yet?"

He stood before her under a street lamp, handsome still, upright for all
his years, strong as fate itself, and surely kinder than any fate which
Rachel Minchin had yet met with in the course of her short but
checkered life. And yet--and yet--she trusted and distrusted him too!

"I can and I cannot," s