‘Fancy,’ said my aunt, who was writing a letter at a little desk between two windows,—­’fancy an Aylwin pulling the check-string, and then, with ladies in the carriage and the rain pouring—­’

During that day how many times I passed in front of the theatre I cannot say; but at last I thought the very men in the shops must be observing me.  Again, though I half poisoned myself with my drug, I passed a sleepless night.  The next night was passed in almost the same manner as the previous one.

II

From this time I felt working within me a great change.  A horrible new thought got entire possession of me.  Wherever I went I could think of nothing but—­the curse.  I scorned the monstrous idea of a curse, and yet I was always thinking about it.  I was always seeking Winifred—­always speculating on her possible fate.  I saw no one in society.

My time was now largely occupied with wandering about the streets of London.  I began by exploring the vicinity of the theatre, and day after day used to thread the alleys and courts in that neighbourhood.  Then I took the eastern direction, and soon became familiar with the most squalid haunts.

My method was to wander from street to street, looking at every poorly-dressed girl I met.  Often I was greeted with an impudent laugh, that brought back the sickening mental pictures I have mentioned; and often I was greeted with an angry toss of the head and such an exclamation as, ‘What d’ye take me for, staring like that?’

These peregrinations I used to carry far into the night, and thus, as I perceived, got the character at my hotel of a wild young man.  The family solicitor wrote to me again and again for appointments which I could not give him.

It had often occurred to me that in a case of this kind the police ought to be of some assistance.  One day I called at Scotland Yard, saw an official, and asked his aid.  He listened to my story attentively, then said:  ’Do you come from the missing party’s friends, sir?’

‘I am her friend,’ I answered—­’her only friend.’

’I mean, of course, do you represent her father or mother, or any near relative?’

‘She is an orphan; she has no relatives,’ I said.

He looked at me steadily and said:  ’I am sorry, sir, that neither I nor a magistrate could do anything to aid you.’

‘You can do nothing to aid me?’ I asked angrily.

’I can do nothing to aid you, sir, in identifying a young woman you once heard sing in the streets of London, with a lady you saw once on the top of Snowdon.’

As I was leaving the office, he said:  ’One moment, sir.  I don’t see how I can take up this case for you, but I may make a suggestion.  I have an idea that you would do well to pursue inquiries among the Gypsies.’

‘Gypsies!’ I said with great heat, as I left the office.  ’If you knew how I had already “pursued inquiries” among the Gypsies, you would understand how barren is your suggestion.’