“Listen!” said she, in a very low whisper.

“Well, it’s only some one going up the stairs,” said he, in a reassuring tone.

Carrie shook her head emphatically.

“Coming, not going,” said she.  “And it’s a policeman’s tread.  Don’t you know that?”

Max grew rather cold.

“Oh, nonsense!” said he, quickly.  “What should—­”

She stopped him by a rapid gesture, and at the same moment there was a ring at the bell.  For a moment, Max, alarmed by the girl’s words, hesitated to open it.  Carrie made a rapid gesture to him to do so, at the same time disappearing herself into the sitting-room.

Max opened the door.

A man in plain clothes stood outside, and at the head of the stairs behind him was a policeman in uniform.

“Mr. Dudley Horne?” said the man.

“These are his rooms, but Mr. Horne is not here.”

“You are a friend of his, sir?”

“Yes.  My name is Wedmore.”

If the man had had a momentary doubt about him, it was by this time dispelled.  He stepped inside the door.

“I must have a look round, if you please, sir.”  Max held his ground.  “I have a warrant for Mr. Horne’s arrest.”

Max staggered back.  And the man passed him and went in.

CHAPTER XIX.

A STRANGE PAIR.

As Carrie, with her feminine acuteness, had guessed, Dudley Horne had never had any intention of returning to his chambers for her and Max.

On the contrary, he was delighted to have the opportunity of slipping quietly away, and of evading the solicitude of his friend, as well as the society of Carrie herself, of whom he had a strong but not unnatural mistrust.

No sooner did he reach the street than he hailed a hansom and directed the driver to take him to Limehouse, and to lose no time.  Then he sat back in the cab, staring at the reins, while the haggard look on his face grew more intense and the eager expression of expectancy and dread of something impending became deeper every moment.

During the last fortnight, Max, having had his thoughts occupied with his own affairs, had not had so much time for the consideration of those of his friend; and he had lost sight altogether of the theory that Dudley was mad.  But if he could have seen Dudley now, with the wild look in his eyes, could have noted the restless movements of his hands, the twitching of his face, the impatience with which he now leaned forward, now back, as if alternately urging the horse forward and holding him back, Max would have felt bound to admit that the case for the young barrister’s insanity was very strong.

As soon as the hansom began to thread the narrow streets which lie between Commercial Road and the riverside, Dudley sprang out, paid the man his fare, and walked off at a rapid pace.  It was a frosty night, and the ill-clad women who shuffled past him looked pinched and miserable.  Even they, with cares enough of their own on their shoulders, turned to look at him as he passed.  There was a glare in his black eyes, an uncanny something in his walk, in his look, which made them watch him and wonder who he was, and where he was going to.