I hesitated, for my funds were low, and would be almost spent by the time I had paid the premium of ten pounds, and my travelling expenses; yet I dared not trust myself either in the streets or in an omnibus.  I saw my new friend regard me keenly; my dress, so worn and faded, and my old-fashioned bonnet.  A smile flickered across his face.  He led me back into Fleet Street, and called an empty cab that was passing by.  We shook hands warmly.  There was no time for loitering; and I told him the name of the suburb where I was living, and he repeated it to the cabman.

“All right,” he said, speaking through the window, “the fare is paid, and I’ve taken cabby’s number.  If he tries to cheat you, let me know; Dr. John Senior, Brook Street.  I hope that situation will be a good one, and very pleasant.  Good-by.”

“Good-by,” I cried, leaning forward and looking at his face till the crowd came between us, and I lost sight of it.  It was a handsomer face than Dr. Martin Dobree’s, and had something of the same genial, vivacious light about it.  I knew it well afterward, but I had not leisure to think much of it then.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

BELLRINGER STREET.

I was still trembling with the terror that my meeting with Richard Foster had aroused.  A painful shuddering agitated me, and my heart fluttered with an excess of fear which I could not conquer.  I could still feel his grasp upon my arm, where the skin was black with the mark; and there was before my eyes the sight of his haggard and enraged face, as he struggled to get free from the policeman.  When he was sober would he recollect all that had taken place, and go to make inquiries after me at Ridley’s agency-office?  Dr. John Senior had said he had followed me from there.  I scarcely believed he would.  Yet there was a chance of it, a deadly chance to me.  If so, the sooner I could fly from London and England the better.

I felt safer when the cabman set me down at the house where I lodged, and I ran up-stairs to my little room.  I kindled the fire, which had gone out during my absence, and set my little tin tea-kettle upon the first clear flame which burned up amid the coal.  Then I sat down on my box before it, thinking.

Yes; I must leave London.  I must take this situation, the only one open to me, in a school in France.  I should at least be assured of a home for twelve months; and, as the clerk had said, I should perfect myself in French and gain a referee.  I should be earning a character, in fact.  At present I had none, and so was poorer than the poorest servant-maid.  No character, no name, no money; who could be poorer than the daughter of the wealthy colonist, who had owned thousands of acres in Adelaide?  I almost laughed and cried hysterically at the thought of my father’s vain care and provision for my future.