Mavis was at once aware of the inconvenient consequences to which an application for references to anyone at Melkbridge would give rise, especially as her name and state were alike incorrectly given.  She hesitated for a few moments before telling the inspector that, disliking the publicity of the police court, she would prefer to instruct a solicitor.  As she left the station, she would have felt considerably crestfallen, had she not been faint from want of food.  She dragged her way to a tea-shop, to feel the better for a cup of tea and some toast.  The taste of the room in which she had passed the night still fouled her mouth; its stench clung to her clothes.  She asked her way to the nearest public baths, where she thought a shilling well spent in buying the luxury of a hot bath.  Her next concern was to seek out a solicitor who would assist her to recover her stolen property.  She had a healthy distrust of the tribe, and was wondering if, after all, it would not have been better to have risked the inspector’s writing to any address she may have given at Melkbridge, rather than trust any chance lawyer with the matter, when she remembered that her old acquaintance, Miss Meakin, was engaged to a solicitor’s clerk.  She resolved to seek out Miss Meakin, and ask her to get her betrothed’s advice and assistance.  As she did not know Miss Meakin’s present address, she thought the quickest way to obtain it was to call on her old friend Miss Nippett at Blomfield Road, Shepherd’s Bush, who kept the register of all those who attended “Poulter’s.”

She had never quite lost touch with the elderly accompanist; they had sent each other cards at Christmas and infrequently exchanged picture postcards, Miss Nippett’s invariably being a front view of “Poulter’s,” with Mr Poulter on the steps in such a position as not to obscure “Turpsichor” in the background.

Mavis travelled by the Underground to Shepherd’s Bush, from where it was only five minutes’ walk to Miss Nippett’s.  The whole way down, she was so dazed by her loss that she could give no thought to anything else.  The calamities that now threatened her were infinitely more menacing than before her precious bag had been stolen.  It seemed as if man and circumstance had conspired for her undoing.  Her suspense of mind was such that it seemed long hours before she knocked at the blistered door in the Blomfield Road where Miss Nippett lived.

Miss Nippett was in, she learned from the red-nosed, chilblain-fingered slut who opened the door.

“What nyme?”

“Mrs Kenrick, who was Miss Keeves,” replied Mavis.

“Will you go up?” said the slut when, a few minutes later, she came downstairs.

Mavis went upstairs, past the cupboard containing Miss Nippett’s collection of unclaimed “overs,” to the door directly beyond.

 “Come in” cried a well-remembered voice, as Mavis knocked.

She entered, to see Miss Nippett half rising from a chair before the fire.  She was startled by the great change which had taken place in the accompanist’s appearance since she had last seen her.  She looked many years older; her figure was quite bent; the familiar shawl was too ample for the narrow, stooping shoulders.