“Shall I give him in charge?” he asked me.

“I have only just heard of a situation,” I whispered, unable to speak aloud.

“And you are afraid of losing it?” he said; “I understand.—­Take the fellow away, policeman, and lock him up if you can for being drunk and disorderly in the streets; but the lady won’t give him in charge.  I’ve a good mind to make him go down on his knees and beg her pardon.”

“Do, do!” said two or three voices in the crowd.

“Don’t,” I whispered again, “oh! take me away quickly.”

He cleared a passage for us both with a vigor and decision that there was no resisting.  I glanced back for an instant, and saw my husband struggling with the policeman, the centre of the knot of bystanders from which I was escaping.  He looked utterly unlike a gay, prosperous, wealthy man, with a well-filled purse, such as he had used to appear.  He was shabby and poor enough now for the policeman to be very hard upon him, and to prevent him from following me.  The stranger kept my hand firmly on his arm, and almost carried me into Fleet Street, where, in a minute or two we were quite lost in the throng, and I was safe from all pursuit.

“You are not fit to go on,” he said, kindly; “come out of the noise a little.”

He led me down a covered passage between two shops, into a quiet cluster of squares and gardens, where only a subdued murmur of the uproar of the streets reached us.  There were a sufficient number of passers-by to prevent it seeming lonely, but we could hear our own voices, and those of others, even in whispers.

“This is the Temple,” he said, smiling, “a fit place for a sanctuary.”

“I do not know how to thank you,” I answered falteringly.

“You are trembling still!” he replied; “how lucky it was that I followed you directly out of Ridley’s!  If I ever come across that scoundrel again, I shall know him, you may be sure.  I wish we were a little nearer home, you should go in to rest; but our house is in Brook Street, and we have no women-kind belonging to us.  My name is John Senior.  Perhaps you have heard of my father, Dr. Senior, of Brook Street?”

“No.”  I replied, “I know nobody in London.”

“That’s bad,” he said.  “I wish I was Jane Senior instead of John Senior; I do indeed.  Do you feel better now, Miss Martineau?”

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“The clerk at Ridley’s called you Miss Ellen Martineau,” he answered.  “My hearing is very good, and I was not deeply engrossed in my business.  I heard and saw a good deal while I was there, and I am very glad I heard and saw you.  Do you feel well enough now for me to see you home?”

“Oh!  I cannot let you see me home,” I said, hurriedly.

“I will do just what you like best.” he replied.  “I have no more right to annoy you than that drunken vagabond had.  If I did, I should be more blamable than he was.  Tell me what I shall do for you then.  Shall I call a cab?”