Suddenly as she passed into Oxford Street she stopped, struck with an idea that sent her blood flowing into her pale cheek, flushing it into living beauty.  Her large eyes grew thoughtful and full of a strange light.

“Why should I go back to Johann?” she murmured.  “Can’t I follow him—­the kind gentleman?  Can’t I be his servant?”

The answer came quick enough from her inner consciousness.  No, she must go back.  Of what service could she be to such a man as Adrien?  There was nothing for it but to return to Cracknell Court.  So, wearily, but still with that grace which Southern blood bestows, even though it runs in the veins of a gipsy, or such a street waif as Jessica, she walked on and reached Johann Wilfer’s house.

Jessica knew that the man was not her father, but she knew little more than that.  She had never asked him or Martha for any information about her parentage—­indeed, had scarcely wished for any; it was enough for her than Johann gave her sufficient bread to keep life within her.

That gentleman was, at the moment of her arrival, absent, engaged on business concerning the sale of the faked picture to Mr. Harker, and Martha was still away; so Jessica, pausing at the door of the living-room to ascertain that it was empty, softly ascended the stairs leading to the garret which served as her special apartment.

It was as small and as squalid as all the other rooms in that crowded court; but it was different from them in one respect—­it was clean.

A miserable chair bedstead of the cheapest kind, covered with a threadbare quilt; a chair with the back broken off; a washstand on three legs, and a triangular piece of silvered glass, the remains of a cheap mirror, composed the furniture.

This peculiarly-shaped piece of common glass reflected the girl’s beautiful face in all manner of distorted forms.  The quilt just kept her from perishing with the cold.  But yet the mirror, the bed, and the room itself were precious to her, for they were her own.  Beyond its sacred threshold Johann or Martha never passed.  She had a key to it; and to enter now she unlocked the door.

After the luxury of Adrien’s rooms the mean quality of her own apartment struck the girl more forcibly than usual, and sinking upon the bed, she covered her face with her hands and gave way to a flood of tears.  But the weakness did not last long; and after a moment of two, with a sudden gesture, almost Italian in its intensity, she flung back her head and rose from her crouching position.

“I will not think of the beautiful place.  I will not think of him, she told herself passionately.

“But oh! will he be sorry that I ran away, or will he laugh, and ask that proud servant to see that I haven’t stolen anything?”

She shook her head mournfully at her own distorted reflection in the cracked mirror, then she sighed and went downstairs.

Johann had returned, wonderful to relate, still fairly sober; but this was probably due to the necessity of maintaining at least the appearance of sobriety in his transaction on behalf of the gang concerning the sale of the picture.