“Yes; he went up the Strand like twenty blessed lamplighters rolled into one.” “Where’s the Strand?” said Ada. The officer stopped short at the question, and looked hard at Ada for some moments to assure himself that he was not, in his own phraseology, being “regularly done;” but there was something so very innocent and guileless in the face of Ada that he very reluctantly came to the conclusion that she really did not know where the Strand was, and from that moment he looked upon her as a natural phenomenon, and spoke to her with a curious kind of considerate voice, such as he would have addressed to a person not quite right in her mind. “Why, the Strand,” he said, “runs from the Cross to the Bar, you see.” “Does it?” said Ada. “This here is Whitehall.” “Whitehall? I have read of Whitehall. Cardinal Wolsey held great state here once.” “Well, I never,” thought the officer, who had never heard of Cardinal Wolsey in his life. “She’s wandering in her mind, poor thing.” “What building is that?” inquired Ada, as they came opposite to the Horse Guards. “That ’ere is the Horse Guards, and leads into the Park.” “St. James’s Park? I have been there,” said Ada. “That too is full of recollection.” “I believe ye,” said the officer. “Don’t you know as Bill Floggs, who was called the ‘Nubbly Cove,’ robbed Lord Chief Justice Bones by Buckingham Gate?” “No,” said Ada, who, if there had been a Newgate Calendar in those days, had never seen one. “Oh! you doesn’t?—Nor Claude Duval, the ladies’ own highwayman, who robbed a gentleman of his gold watch, while he, the gentleman, was complaining of being stopped the very night before by him on Kennington Common?” “Indeed?” “Lor,’ bless you, yes. The ladies used to take a drive out of town on purpose to be robbed by Claude Duval.” “A strange fancy,” said Ada. They now proceeded for some distance in silence, until they came to a large mansion, every window of which was blazing with light, and from the interior of which came the sound of music. Ada paused, and looked upon the illuminated windows as a sensation of pleasure came across her mind, arising from the sweet sounds of melody that came wafted to her ears from within the house of revelry. “Ah!” remarked the officer, looking up at the house, “they do keep it up finely. Almost every night now for a week there has been nothing but feasting, dancing, and music in that house. They say its master don’t like to be left alone, and that he is never satisfied unless the house be full of company, and himself in the very midst of it.” “Indeed!” “Yes, he is an odd-looking fellow; but they say he is so rich he might pave his great hall with guineas.” “And yet shrinks, as it were, from himself, that he dare not be alone!” “Why, ’atween you and I, there’s Tyburn written upon his face.” “What upon his face?” “Tyburn.” “What’s that?” “Why—why—you don’t mean all to go to say as you never heard o’ Tyburn?”