He looked out at the wagons, the carts, the nondescript vehicles of every description; but a moment before she had been there,—­so near; he had caught beneath filmy white the glitter of gold,—­her hair, the only bright thing in that murk and gloom.  He recalled how he had once sat beside her at the opera.  How different was this babel, this grinding and crunching of London’s thundering wheels!

But around her had always been dreams that had led him into strange byways, through dangerous, though flowery paths!  To what end?  To see her start, her eyes wide with involuntary dread, shrinking?  Could he not thus interpret that look he had seen by the flare of a carriage lamp, when she had caught sight of him?

Dread of him?  It seemed the crowning mockery; his blood surged faster; he forgot his purpose, when a figure coming out of a public house, through one of the doors near which he had halted, caught his attention.  Dandy Joe, a prodigal with unexpected riches, wiped his lips as he sauntered past John Steele and continued his way, lurching a little.

How long did Steele walk after him?  The distance across the city was far; groping, occasionally stumbling, it seemed interminable now.  Once or twice Dandy Joe lost his way, and jocularly accosted passers-by to inquire.  At Seven Dials he experienced difficulty in determining which one of the miserable streets radiating as from a common hub, would lead him in the desired direction; but, after looking hastily at various objects—­a barber’s post, a metal plate on a wall—­he selected his street.  Narrow, dark, it wormed its way through a cankered and little-traversed part of old London.

For a time they two seemed the only pedestrians that had ventured forth that night in a locality so uninviting.  On either side the houses pressed closer upon them.  Touching a wall here and there, John Steele experienced the vague sensation that he had walked that way on other occasions, long, long ago.  Or was it only a bad dream that again stirred him?  Through the gulch-like passage swept a cold draft of air; it made little rifts in the fog; showed an entrance, a dim light.  At the same time the sound of the footsteps in front abruptly ceased.

For a few minutes Steele waited; he looked toward the place Dandy Joe had entered.  It was well-known to him, and, what seemed more important, to Mr. Gillett; the latter would remember it in connection with the ’Frisco Pet; presumably turn to it as a likely spot to search for him who had been forced to leave Captain Forsythe’s home.  That contingency—­nay, probability—­had to be considered; the one person he most needed to find had taken refuge in one of the places he would have preferred not to enter.  But no time must be lost hesitating; he had to choose.  Dismissing all thought of danger from without, thinking only of what lay before him within, he moved quickly forward and tried the door.

It yielded; had Dandy Joe left it unfastened purposely to lure him within, or had his potations made him unmindful?  The man outside neither knew nor cared; the mocking consciousness that he had turned that knob before, knew how to proceed, held him.  He entered, felt his way in the darkness through winding passages, downward, avoiding a bad step—­did he remember even that?