“Oh, hem! From Battersea?” “I told you so.” “Come, come, young fellow—no insolence. Where’s the fire?” “I can’t say exactly.” “Where do you think it is? You say you have pulled up from Battersea, and the fire is at Battersea, we know.” “I think it’s at old Forest’s haunted house,” said the boy. “D—d if I didn’t think so,” cried the officer, who was no other than our old friend Stephy; “I must go and see, though, notwithstanding. Pull away, my man.” The wherries shot past each other, and in a few moments more, Ada and Gray stood on the top of the flight of stone steps conducting from the river to Bridge-street. CHAPTER LI. The Alcove on the Bridge.—Gray’s Speech to Ada.—The Flight.—The Hunt.—The Last Refuge. London was not so thronged with passengers at the period of our tale as it is now, and Gray stood with Ada several moments at the corner of Westminster-bridge, without more than three persons passing, and those at intervals apart from each other. Gray appeared to be in deep thought during this time, and then taking Ada by the arm, he said in a trembling voice,— “This way, this way,” and led her to the bridge. Ada made no resistance, but suffered herself to be conducted into one of the little alcoves which now exist. Then, after a pause, Jacob Gray spoke to her in a low, earnest tone, to the following purport:— “Ada, the time is now fast approaching when you will be free—free in action as in thought, and with the means of giving to every thought, however wayward or expensive, the immediate aspect of reality. You will be guided implicitly by me, Ada, for the space of about one month, and no longer—then all that I promise will be fulfilled, and you will be happy. You may then forget Jacob Gray, for you will see him no more. In another country I will spend the remainder of my life. What I am about to do now is, to seek in the very heart of this populous city, a temporary abode for you and myself. I am tired of solitudes and lonely places. Ada, you must for that brief month assume in all appearance the character of my daughter.” Ada shuddered, and shrank back as far as she possibly could into the alcove, for Gray, in the earnestness of his discourse, had brought his face in very close proximity to hers. “For your own sake, as well as for mine,” he continued, “you must pass as a child of mine. When I am gone, you may repudiate the relationship as quickly as you may think proper.” Jacob Gray then paused as if awaiting the answer of Ada, but to his great surprise and aggravation, she preserved the same unbroken silence which she had dictated to herself since the murder at the lone house.