which she had collected at hap-hazard.
Incongruous and heterogeneous odds and ends, which
she thought might by possibility be of some use
to her mistress. The tears came into Gabrielle's
eyes at this, aad she took the girl's hand, and
pressed it affectionately as they drove away.

The wheels of the cab had actually began to
turn, and were grinding against the kerb-stone
of the pavement, when a woman, whom Gabrielle
recognised at once for Jane Cantanker, came
suddenly forward out of the darkness, and drew
near to the window of the vehicle. Appearing
thus almost as if she had sprung up out of the
earth, she walked for a moment or two by the
side of the cab, and peered into the dark corner
in which Gabrielle was seated, gazing upon her
with devouring insatiable eyes. Keeping beside
the cab till at last the driver had urged his horse
into a trot, this woman, without uttering one
single word, made her hate so felt by the poor
prisoner on whom her eyes were fixed, that
Gabrielle could not repress a faint cry of terror
as she shrank back yet further into her corner,
and caught her husband quickly by the hand.

"Oh, Gilbert," she cried, as Cantanker fell
back, "that dreadful woman again. I feel sure
that she will never rest satisfied till she has got
my life."

Gilbert pressed the small hand that lay in his,
and tried to answer in a cheering tone, and to
make light of the circumstance. But his own
heart was very heavy, and at such a time it was
but natural that such an occurrence should make
an impression of the most ghastly and painful
sort. The policeman sitting rigid upon the
opposite seat of the cab, stared hard at Gilbert,
as if he expected some explanation of that
apparition at the cab door. There was none
forthcoming, however. Penmore sat motionless
and lost, gazing into the street as they drove
slowly along. His mind was like a mirror; it
received the impression of the objects which
came before it, but lost them again as soon as
their images had passed away from its surface.
They travelled mainly along the poorer sort of
streets, the cabman seeming to have, as is the
case with some of the fraternity, a preference
for these over the gayer and more distinguished
thoroughfares. On that outer surface of his
mind, whose inner depths were tenanted with
such sad and serious thoughts, the names
inscribed above the shops, the labels on the
goods in the windows, nay, the very prices
attached to them, and the invitation to try their
quality, addressed, often in comic terms, to the
public, were each and all temporarily reflected.
Nor did he fail to note how the cab and its
living freight was observed and silently
commented on by every policeman whose beat lay
along their line of route, and each one of whom
appeared, however quickly they passed him by,
to understand the case thoroughly, exchanging
always some telegraphic signal or other with
the constable who sat upon the box. These
things he noted with his outward senses, but
never a one of them was able to dispossess,
even for a moment, those dread thoughts which
had sole possession of his mind, and held their
own there undisturbed.

And so they passed through other streets
that were busy, populous, and alive. The shops
were lighted up brilliantly, and multitudes of
passengers were hurrying hither and thither,
all free to go where they liked, and do what
they liked. Gilbert and his wife—a prisoner—
sat and looked mechanically out of the windows
at the passers-by, and freedom seemed a strange
thing, and wore an altogether new aspect to
both of them.

It was a long drive, but at last they came to the
end of it, and the cab drew up suddenly at one of
the small doors pierced in the wall of Newgate.
Let the reader try to picture to himself such a
case as this, and he may form some idea of what
tortures the husband, even more than the wife,
was called upon to endure. To see his dear
Gabrielle carried off to prison, to be powerless
to prevent it, to be unable to do more than
follow her to the hideous felons' door, where for
the time he must leave her. To be unable to
move the calm officials, whom in the phrensy of
his misery he sought to convince that it must
all be some mistake—a thing that could and
would be speedily set right; "Gabrielle,
Gabrielle," he cried, as she passed down the
whitewashed corridor of the prison out of his
sight. "Give her back to me," he cried,
seizing in his madness the warder by the
throat—"give her back to me—or let me go
with her."

What could he do? He was overpowered in
a moment. The very coolness and good nature
of the turnkey whom he had assailed had
something of baffling about it. "You'll get an order,
sir," said the man, settling his disordered
cravat, "and then you'll see her whenever you
like. And in the interim there's no harm will
come to her. There's the matron to look
after her, and she'll be as safe and comfortable
—your good lady will—as if she was at home."

It was the beginning and the end of his
rebellion. He would gulp down his rage and
his misery together, and only allow them way
when he was alone. The ravings of his
indignation could not help her, and they might
do her an injury. Her keepers might be set
against her, and they had the power to vex her
in a hundred petty ways. He did not think
they would, from what he had seen, but they
might.

He went home that night to a solitude that
was almost unbearable. The house was deserted
except by the one miserable servant, Charlotte,
for Cantanker, the funeral being over, and
Gabrielle Penmore in custody, had gone away
to lodgings of her own hard by. It was more
lonely and sad than words can tell. It was
just the time when all the worst features of any
case would be certain to present themselves,
and now they all came before our poor Gilbert,
and ranged themselves over against him in
murderous array. The evidence was, as we
have seen, of the most damning kind. It
appeared now indeed to be complete. This last