At five o'clock on the afternoon of that day Dr. Spenlove returned to his apartments. Having given away the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London, he had bethought him of a gentleman living in Southsea of whom he thought he could borrow a sovereign or two for a few weeks. He had walked the distance, and had met with disappointment; the gentleman was absent on business and might be absent several days. "Upon my word," said the good doctor as he drearily retraced his steps, "it is almost as bad as being shipwrecked. Worse, because there are no railways on desert islands. What on earth am I to do? Get to London I must, by hook or by crook, and there is absolutely nothing I can turn into money." Then he bethought himself of Mr. Moss, and in his extremity determined to make an appeal in that quarter. Had it not been for what had occurred last night he would not have dreamed of going to this gentleman, of whose goodness of heart he had had no previous experience, and upon whose kindness he had not the slightest claim. Arriving at Mr. Moss' establishment, another disappointment attended him; Mr. Moss was not at home, and they could not say when he would return. So Dr. Spenlove, greatly depressed, walked slowly on, his mind distressed with troubles and perplexities. He had seen nothing more of Mr. Gordon, who had left him in the early morning with a simple acknowledgment in words of the services he had rendered; nor had he seen anything further of Mrs. Turner. On his road home he called at her lodgings, and heard from her fellow-lodger that she had left the house. "We don't know where she's gone to, sir," the woman said, "but the rent has been paid up, and a sovereign was slipped under my door. If it wasn't that she was so hard up I should have thought it came from her." "I have no doubt it did," Dr. Spenlove answered. "She has friends who are well to do, and I know that one of these friends, discovering her position, was anxious to assist her." "I am glad to hear it," said the woman, "and it was more than kind of her to remember me. I always had an idea that she was above us." As he was entering his room his landlady ran up from the kitchen. "Oh, doctor, there's a parcel and two letters for you in your room, and Mr. Moss has been here to see you. He said he would come again." "Very well, Mrs. Radcliffe," said Dr. Spenlove, and cheered by the news of the promised visit he passed into his apartment. On the table were the letters and the parcel. The latter, carefully wrapped in thick brown paper, was the iron box he had given to Mrs. Turner. One of the letters was in her handwriting, and it informed him that her child had been taken away, and that she was on the point of leaving Portsmouth.