against her; although this last had been the final goad to the course she took.  She walked away almost at headlong speed; sobbing as she went, as she had not dared to do during the past night for fear of exciting wonder in those who might hear her.  Then she stopped.  An idea came into her mind that she would leave London altogether, and betake herself to her native town of Liverpool.  She felt in her pocket for her purse, as she drew near the Euston Square station with this intention.  She had left it at home.  Her poor head aching, her eyes swollen with crying, she had to stand still, and think, as well as she could, where next she should bend her steps.  Suddenly the thought flashed into her mind that she would go and find out poor Mr. Frank.  She had been hardly kind to him the night before, though her heart had bled for him ever since.  She remembered his telling her as she inquired for his address, almost as she had pushed him out of the door, of some hotel in a street not far distant from Euston Square.  Thither she went:  with what intention she hardly knew, but to assuage her conscience by telling him how much she pitied him.  In her present state she felt herself unfit to counsel, or restrain, or assist, or do ought else but sympathise and weep.  The people of the inn said such a person had been there; had arrived only the day before; had gone out soon after his arrival, leaving his luggage in their care; but had never come back.  Norah asked for leave to sit down, and await the gentleman’s return.  The landlady—­pretty secure in the deposit of luggage against any probable injury—­showed her into a room, and quietly locked the door on the outside.  Norah was utterly worn out, and fell asleep—­a shivering, starting, uneasy slumber, which lasted for hours.

The detective, meanwhile, had come up with her some time before she entered the hotel, into which he followed her.  Asking the landlady to detain her for an hour or so, without giving any reason beyond showing his authority (which made the landlady applaud herself a good deal for having locked her in), he went back to the police-station to report his proceedings.  He could have taken her directly; but his object was, if possible, to trace out the man who was supposed to have committed the robbery.  Then he heard of the discovery of the brooch; and consequently did not care to return.

Norah slept till even the summer evening began to close in.  Then up.  Some one was at the door.  It would be Mr. Frank; and she dizzily pushed back her ruffled grey hair, which had fallen over her eyes, and stood looking to see him.  Instead, there came in Mr. Openshaw and a policeman.

“This is Norah Kennedy,” said Mr. Openshaw.

“O, sir,” said Norah, “I did not touch the brooch; indeed I did not.  O, sir, I cannot live to be thought so badly of;” and very sick and faint, she suddenly sank down on the ground.  To her surprise, Mr. Openshaw raised her up very tenderly.  Even the policeman helped to lay her on the sofa; and, at Mr. Openshaw’s desire, he went for some wine and sandwiches; for the poor gaunt woman lay there almost as if dead with weariness and exhaustion.