“Stop a moment, Jack.  Can you give me Mademoiselle Laurentia’s address?”

“Yes, certainly, Number 17, The Grove Highgate.  Are you going to see her?  It always struck me that you and she didn’t get on very well last autumn at Mount Severn.”

“Did it strike you in that way?”

“Yes, it did, and I couldn’t help noticing that whenever you came in one door she seemed to go out of the other; in fact, old boy, I’m sure she didn’t like you much.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, and Elsie thought just as I do.”

“Indeed, you are wonderfully observant, Jack.  I did not credit you with such powers of perspicacity.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, but I can see through a stone wall as well as any one else, though I was always very stupid at school.”

“Well, perhaps what you say may be true, Jack, but I’m going to call on Mademoiselle Laurentia.  You know we Canadians are very patriotic.”

“I admire you for your forgiving disposition.  If you really want to see Mademoiselle Laurentia, the only time to catch her in is between five and six.  Good-bye, old fellow, I must be off.  Don’t forget to-morrow at two o’clock sharp.”

After Jack went, McAllister hesitated for a moment, then glanced at his watch, hailed a passing hansom, jumped in, and called out to the driver, “Go to 17, The Grove, Highgate.  A sovereign if you get there before six o’clock.”

The cabman shook his head doubtfully and said, “I’ll try my best, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t do it.  It’s a long way off, you know.”

He did try his best at any rate, and off they went at break-neck speed, on! on! on! past rows and rows of houses, past wildernesses of brick and mortar.  Far behind them they left churches, hospitals, buildings innumerable, the mansions of the rich and the wretched dwellings of the poor, the squalid habitations of outcast London, on! on! on!  Up the great hill of Highgate, where the tender green foliage of early summer and of the great oak trees bordered the roadside, and where the almond blossoms perfumed all the heated air with a subtle delicate fragrance, on! on! on!

Quickly they dashed past many an historic spot, past the house where Coleridge lived, past the walls of the great cemetery, which contains the ashes of hundreds of illustrious dead, past the little church, perched on the summit of the hill, from whose belfry could be heard the chimes for evensong, coming faintly on the still air; on! on! on!

But it is a long lane that has no turning, and at length the hansom drew up before a little cottage far back from the road.  A long porch of lattice-work led up to the front door, and tall elm trees shaded the little garden.  It was a pleasant enough little abode on the outside at any rate, sheltered from the noise and bustle of the great city.

“No. 17, The Grove, sir,” called out the cabman, breathless, but triumphant, “and it’s only five minutes to six.”