Before he could say the rest, I was occupying
that one inside place. I remember nothing of
the journey from the time we left the hotel-
door, except that it was fearfully long. At
some hour of the day with which I was not
acquainted (for my watch had stopped for
want of winding up), I was set down in a
clean little street of a prim little town (the
name of which I never thought of asking),
and was told that the coach never went any
further.

No postchaise was to be had. With
incredible difficulty I got first a gig, then
a man to drive it; and, last, a pony to
draw it. We hobbled away crazily from
the inn door. I thought of Screw and the
Bow Street runner approaching Crickgelly,
from their point of the compass, perhaps
at the full speed of a good post-chaise—I
thought of that, and would have given all
the money in my pocket for two hours' use of
a fast road-hack.

Judging by the time we occupied in
making the journey, and a little also by my
own impatience, I should say that Crickgelly
must have been at least twenty miles distant
from the town where I took the gig. The sun
was setting, when we first heard, through the
evening stillness, the sound of the surf on the
sea-shore. The twilight was falling as we
entered the little fishing village, and let our
unfortunate pony stop, for the last time, at a
small inn door.

The first question I asked of the landlord
was, whether two gentlemen (friends of mine,
of course, whom I expected to meet) had
driven into Crickgelly, a little while before
me. The reply was in the negative; and
the sense of relief it produced seemed to rest
me at once, body and mind, after my long and
anxious journey. Either I had beaten the
spies on the road, or they were not bound to
Crickgelly. Any way, I had first possession
of the field of action. I paid the man who
had driven me, and asked my way to Zion
Place. My directions were simple—I had
only to go through the village, and I should
find Zion Place at the other end of it.

The village had a very strong smell, and a
curious habit of building boats in the street
between intervals of detached cottages; a
helpless, muddy, fishy little place. I walked
through it rapidly; turned inland a few
hundred yards; ascended some rising ground;
and discerned, in the dim twilight, four small
lonesome villas standing in pairs, with a
shed and a saw-pit on one side, and a few
shells of unfinished houses on the other.
Some madly speculative builder was evidently
trying to turn Crickgelly into a watering-
place.

I made out Number two, and discovered the
bell-handle with difficulty, it was growing so
dark. A servant-maid—corporeally enormous;
but, as I soon found, in a totally
undeveloped state, mentally—opened the door.

"Does Miss James live here?" I asked.

"Don't see no visitors," answered the
large maiden. "'T'other one tried it and had
to go away. You go, too."

"'T'other one?" I repeated. "Another
visitor? And when did he call?"

"Better than an hour ago."

"Was there nobody with him?"

"No. Don't see no visitors. He went.
You go, too."

Just as she repeated that exasperating
formula of words, a door opened at the end of
the passage. My voice had evidently reached
the ears of somebody in the back parlour.
Who the person was, I could not see, but I
heard the rustle of a woman's dress. My
situation was growing desperate, my
suspicions were aroused—I determined to risk
everything—and I called softly, in the
direction of the open door, "Laura!"

A voice answered, "Good heavens!
Frank?" It was her voice. She had recognised
mine. I pushed past the big servant;
in two steps I was at the end of the passage;
in one more I was in the back parlour.

She was there, standing alone by the side
of a table. Seeing my changed costume and
altered face, she turned deadly pale, and
stretched her hand behind her mechanically,
as if to take hold of a chair. I caught her
in my arms; but was afraid to kiss her; she
trembled so when I only touched her.

"Frank!" she said, drawing her head
back. "What is it? How did you find out?
O! for mercy's sake, what does it mean?"

"It means, love, that I've come to take
care of you for the rest of your life and mine,
if you will only let me. Don't tremble—
there's nothing to be afraid of! Only
compose yourself, and I'll tell you why I am here
in this strange disguise. Come, come, Laura!
—don't look like that at me. You called me
Frank just now, for the first time. Would
you have done that, if you had disliked me
or forgotten me?"

I saw her colour beginning to come back—
the old bright glow returning to the dear
dusky cheeks. If I had not seen them so
near me, I might have exercised some self-
control—as it was, I lost my presence of
mind entirely, and kissed her.

She drew herself away half-frightened,
half-confused—certainly not offended, and,
apparently, not very likely to faint—which
was more than I could have said of her when
I first entered the room. Before she had
time to reflect on the peril and awkwardness
of our position, I pressed the first necessary
questions on her rapidly, one after the other.

"Where is Mrs. Baggs?" I asked first.

Mrs. Baggs was the housekeeper.

Laura pointed to the closed folding-doors.
"In the front parlour; asleep on the sofa."

"Have you any suspicion who the stranger
was who called more than an hour ago?"

"None. The servant told him we saw no
visitors, and he went away, without leaving
his name."