and arranged her possessions in readiness for the coming train, a porter emerged lazily from some unknown corner and looked up the line—­then, after another five minutes of blankness, there came a hoarse throbbing in the distance, a bell rang, and the up-train panted into the station.  It was a slow train, unluckily for Gilbert’s impatience, which stopped everywhere, and the journey to London took him over an hour.  It was past nine when a hansom drove him into Coleman-street, a dull unfrequented-looking thoroughfare between Tottenham-court-road and Gower-street, overshadowed a little by the adjacent gloom of the University Hospital, and altogether a low-spirited street.

Gilbert looked up eagerly at the windows of Number 14, expecting to see lights shining, and some visible sign of rejoicing, even upon the house front; but there was nothing.  Either the shutters were shut, or there was no light within, for the windows were blank and dark.  It was a slight thing, but enough to intensify that shapeless foreboding against which he had been struggling throughout his journey.

“You must have come to the wrong house,” he said to the cabman as he got out.

“No, sir, this is 14.”

Yes, it was the right number.  Gilbert read it on the door; and yet it could scarcely be the right house; for tied to the door-handle was a placard with “Apartments” engraved upon it, and this house would hardly be large enough to accommodate other lodgers besides Mr. Nowell and his daughter.  Yet there is no knowing the capabilities of a London lodging-house in an obscure quarter, and there might be some vacant garret in the roof, or some dreary two-pair back, dignified by the name of “apartments.”  Gilbert gave a loud hurried knock.  There was a delay which seemed to him interminable, then a hasty shuffling of slipshod feet upon the basement stairs, then the glimmer of a light through the keyhole, the removal of a chain, and at last the opening of the door.  It was opened by a young person with her hair dressed in the prevailing fashion, and an air of some gentility, which clashed a little with a certain slatternliness that pervaded her attire.  She was rather a pretty girl, but had the faded London look of late hours, and precocious cares, instead of the fresh bloom and girlish brightness which should have belonged to her.

“Did you please to wish to see the apartments, sir?” she asked politely.

“No; I want to see Mr. and Mrs.—­the lady and gentleman who are lodging here.”

He scarcely knew under what name he ought to ask for Marian.  It seemed unnatural to him now to speak of her as Mrs. Holbrook.

“The lady and gentleman, sir!” the girl exclaimed with a surprised air.  “There’s no one lodging here now.  Mr. Nowell and his daughter left yesterday morning.”

“Left yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.  They went away to Liverpool; they are going to America—­to New York.”