He laughed inwardly at a different vision. In a grim spirit of humor he saw all his unquenchable passion conquered, and he saw himself the plain, homely, respectable husband of this simple wife. "Was Paul alone when you saw him?" said Hugh. "Yes. And would you tell them all?" The girl's sidelong glance was far away. "Mercy, I want you to do something for me." "Yes, yes." Again the sidelong glance. Hugh lifted the girl's head with his hand to recall her wandering thoughts. "Paul will come again to-night. I want you to wait for him and speak to him." "Yes, yes; but won't he ask me questions?" "What if he does? Answer them all. Only don't say that I have told you to speak to him. Tell him--will you remember it?--are you listening?--look me in the face, little woman." "Yes, yes." "Tell him that Mr. Christian--Parson Christian, you know--has come to London and wishes to see him at once. Say he has looked for him at the hotel in Regent Street and not found him there, and is now at the inn in Hendon. Will you remember?" "Yes." "Where were you going, Mercy--back to your poor friends?" "No. But will he be sure to come to-night?" "No doubt. At what time was he here last night?" "Ten o'clock." "It is now hard on nine. Tell him to go to Hendon at once, and when he goes, you go with him. Do you understand?" "Yes." "Don't forget--to-night; to-morrow night will not do. If he does not come, you must follow me to Hendon and tell me so. I shall be there. Don't tell him that--do you hear?" The girl gave a meek assent. "And now good-bye for an hour or two, little one." He turned away, and she was left alone before the dark convent. But, she was not all alone. A new-born dream was with her, and her soul was radiant with light. CHAPTER XIV. Hugh Ritson walked rapidly through Dean's Yard in the direction of the sanctuary. As he turned into Parliament Street the half moon rose above the roof of Westminster Hall. But the night was still dark. He passed through Trafalgar Square and into the Haymarket. The streets were thronged. Crowds on crowds went languidly by. Dim ghosts of men and women, most of them, who loitered at this hour in these streets. Old men, with the souls long years dead within them, and the corruption reeking up with every breath to poison every word, or lurking like charnel lights in the eyes to blink contagion in every glance. Young girls hopping like birds beside them, the spectres of roses in their cheeks, but the real thorns at their hearts. There had been no way for them but this--this and one other way: either to drift into the Thames and be swallowed up in the waters of death, or to be carried along for a brief minute on the froth of the waves of life. Laughing because they might not weep; laughing because their souls were dead; laughing in their conscious travesty of the tragedy of pleasure--they tripped and lounged and sauntered along. And the lamps shone round them, and above them was the glimmering moon.