defence.  Carrington was a barrister, who never himself touched criminal work, but he had spoken to a friend who did, to wit the brilliant terror of female witnesses, and caustic critic of the police, to whom Rachel owed so little.  But to Carrington himself she owed much—­more indeed than she cared to calculate—­for he was not a man whom she liked.  She wished to thank him for his kindness, to give certain undertakings and to ask his advice, but it was Mrs. Carrington whom she really hoped to see.  There was a good heart, or Rachel was much mistaken.  They would have seen more of each other if Mrs. Carrington had had her way.  Rachel remembered her on the occasion of the solitary visit she had received at Holloway—­for Mrs. Carrington had been the visitor.

“Don’t tell Jim,” she had said, “when you get off and come to see us.”

And she had kissed her captive sister in a way that made poor Rachel sometimes think she had a friend in England after all; but that was before her committal; and thereafter from that quarter not a word.  It was not Mrs. Carrington whom Rachel blamed, however, and those last words of hers implied an invitation which had never been withdrawn.  But invitation or no invitation, friend or no friend, Mrs. Carrington she would have to see.  And even he would be different now that he knew she was innocent; and if it was easy to see what he had believed of her before, well, so much the more credit to him for what he had done.

So Rachel had decided before quitting the precincts of the Old Bailey; but her subsequent experiences in street and train so absorbed her that she was full of the interview that was over when she ought to have been preparing for the one still before her.  And, in her absence of mind, the force of habit had taken advantage of her; instead of going on to Tite Street, she turned too soon, and turned again, and was now appalled to find herself in the very street in which her husband had met his death.

The little street was as quiet as ever; Rachel stood quite still, and for the moment she was the only person in it.  She stole up to the house.  The blinds were down, and it was in darkness, otherwise all was as she remembered it only too well.  Her breath came quickly.  It was a strange trick her feet had played her, bringing her here against her will!  Yet she had thought of coming as a last resort.  The furnished house should be hers for some months yet; it had been taken for six months from July, and this was only the end of November.  At the worst—­if no one would take her in—­

She shuddered at the unfinished thought; and yet there was something in it that appealed to Rachel.  To go back there, if only for the shortest time—­to show her face openly where it was known—­not to slink and hide as though she were really guilty!  That might give her back her self-respect; that might make others respect her too.  But could she do it, even if she would?  Could she bring herself to set foot inside that house again?