When Paul returned to the room to call Greta, he found her examining papers. She had picked them up off the table. They were the copies of certificates which Hugh Ritson had left there. Paul had forgotten them during the painful interview. He tried to recover them unread, but he was too late. "This," she said, holding out one of them, "is not the certificate of your birth. This person, Paul Lowther, is no doubt my father's lost son." "No doubt," said Paul, dropping his head. "But he is thirty years of age--see! You are no more than twenty-eight." "If I could but prove that, it would be enough," he said. "I can prove it, and I will!" she said. "You! How?" "Wait until to-morrow, and see," she said. He had put one arm about her waist, and was taking her to the door. She stopped. "I can guess what the black lie has been," she whispered. "Now, driver, up and away." "Right, sir. Kentish Town Junction?" "The station, to catch the 12:30." The carriage door was opened and closed. Then the bitter weeping from the upper room came out to them in the night. "Poor girl! whatever ails her? I seem to remember her voice," said Greta. "We can't wait," Paul answered. CHAPTER IX. The clocks of London were striking one when Paul and Greta descended the steps in front of St. Pancras Station. The night was dark and bitterly cold. Dense fog hung in the air, and an unaccustomed silence brooded over the city. A solitary four-wheeled cab stood in the open square. The driver was inside, huddled up in his great-coat, and asleep. A porter awakened him, and he made way for Greta and Paul. He took his apron from the back of his horse, wrapped it about his waist, and snuffed the wicks of his lamps--they burned low and red, and crackled in the damp atmosphere. "What hotel, sir?" "The convent, Westminster." "Convent, sir? Did you say the convent, sir? St. Margaret's, Westminster, sir?" "The Catholic convent." Greta's hand pressed Paul's arm. The cabman got on to his box, muttering something that was inaudible. As he passed the gate lodge he drew up while the porter on duty came out with a lamp, and took the number of the cab. The fog grew more dense at every step, and the pace at which they traveled was slow. To avoid the maze of streets that would have helped them to a shorter cut on a clearer night, the driver struck along Euston Road to Tottenham Court Road, and thence south toward Oxford Street. This straighter and plainer course had the disadvantage of being more frequented. Many a collision became imminent in the uncertain light. The cabman bought a torch from a passer-by, and stuck it in his whip-barrel. As they reached the busier thoroughfares he got down from his box, took the torch in one hand and the reins in the other, and walked at his horse's head.