possible, to be more on the alert than before.  He stood up to look over the parapet, he alighted and went back after a shadowy female figure that flitted past us, and he gazed into the profound black pit of water with a face that made my heart die within me.  The river had a fearful look, so overcast and secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat lines of shore—­so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, both of substance and shadow; so death-like and mysterious.  I have seen it many times since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but never free from the impressions of that journey.  In my memory the lights upon the bridge are always burning dim, the cutting wind is eddying round the homeless woman whom we pass, the monotonous wheels are whirling on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks palely in upon me—­a face rising out of the dreaded water.

Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leave the houses behind us.  After a while I recognized the familiar way to Saint Albans.  At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we changed and went on.  It was very cold indeed, and the open country was white with snow, though none was falling then.

“An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Bucket cheerfully.

“Yes,” I returned.  “Have you gathered any intelligence?”

“None that can be quite depended on as yet,” he answered, “but it’s early times as yet.”

He had gone into every late or early public-house where there was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being then much frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-keepers.  I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money, and making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful steady look, and he always said to the driver in the same business tone, “Get on, my lad!”

With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o’clock and we were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.

“Drink it, Miss Summerson, it’ll do you good.  You’re beginning to get more yourself now, ain’t you?”

I thanked him and said I hoped so.

“You was what you may call stunned at first,” he returned; “and Lord, no wonder!  Don’t speak loud, my dear.  It’s all right.  She’s on ahead.”

I don’t know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to make, but he put up his finger and I stopped myself.

“Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine.  I heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but couldn’t make quite sure.  Traced her all along, on and off.  Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she’s before us now, safe.  Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler.  Now, if you wasn’t brought up to the butter trade, look out and see if you can catch half a crown in your t’other hand.  One, two, three, and there you are!  Now, my lad, try a gallop!”