I had a long time to wart.  The office clock pointed to half-past three before I caught the clerk’s eye, and saw him beckon me up to the counter.  I had thrown back my veil, for here I was perfectly safe from recognition.  At the other end of the counter, in the compartment devoted to curates, doctors’ assistants, and others, there stood a young man in earnest consultation with another clerk.  He looked earnestly at me, but I was sure he could not know me.

“Miss Ellen Martineau?” said the clerk.  That was my mother’s name, and I had adopted it for my own, feeling as if I had some right to it.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Would you object to go into a French school as governess?” he inquired.

“Not in the least,” I said, eagerly.

“And pay a small premium?” he added.  “How much?” I asked, my spirits falling again.

“A mere trifle,” he said; “about ten pounds or so for twelve months.  You would perfect yourself in French, you know; and you would gain a referee for the future.”

“I must think about it,” I replied.

“Well, there is the address of a lady who can give you all the particulars,” he said, handing me a written paper.

I left the office heavy-hearted.  Ten pounds would be more than the half of the little store left to me.  Yet, would it not be wiser to secure a refuge and shelter for twelve months than run the risk of hearing of some other situation?  I walked slowly along the street toward the busier thoroughfares, with my head bent down and my mind busy, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my arm, grasping it with crushing force, and a harsh, thick voice shouted triumphantly in my ear: 

“The devil!  I’ve caught you at last!”

It was like the bitterness of death, that chill and terror sweeping over me.  My husband’s hot breath was upon my cheek, and his eyes were looking closely into mine.  But before I could speak his grasp was torn away from me, and he was sent whirling into the middle of the road.  I turned, almost in equal terror, to see who had thrust himself between us.  It was the stranger whom I had seen in the agency-office.  But his face was now dark with passion, and as my husband staggered back again toward us, his hand was ready to thrust him away a second time.

“She’s my wife,” he stammered, trying to get past the stranger to me.  By this time a knot of spectators had formed about us, and a policeman had come up.  The stranger drew my arm through his, and faced them defiantly.

“He’s a drunken vagabond!” he said; “he has just come out of those spirit-vaults.  This young lady is no more his wife than she is mine, and I know no more of her than that she has just come away from Ridley’s office, where she has been looking after a situation.  Good Heavens! cannot a lady walk through the streets of London without being insulted by a drunken scoundrel like that"?”

“Will you give him in charge, sir?” asked the policeman, while Richard Foster was making vain efforts to speak coherently, and explain his claim upon me.  I clung to the friendly arm that had come to my aid, sick and almost speechless with fear.