Shortly after this the building was cleared, and George found himself standing in Exhibition Road with the woman on his arm. “You’re going to give me a lift home, ain’t you?” she said. “Yes, marm, for sure I am,” said George, sighing as he thought of the cab fare. Accordingly they got into a hansom, and Mrs. d’Aubigne having given the address in Pimlico, of which George instantly made a mental note, they started. “Come in and have a drink,” she said when they arrived, and accordingly he paid the cab—half-a-crown it cost him—and was ushered by the woman with a simper into the gilded drawing-room. Here the Tiger had another brandy-and-soda, after which George thought that she was about in a fit state for him to prosecute his inquiries. “Wonderful place this Lunnon, marm; I niver was up here afore and had no idea that I should find folks so friendly. As I was a saying to my friend Laryer Quest down at Boisingham yesterday——” “Hullo, what’s that?” she said. “Do you know the old man?” “If you means Laryer Quest, why in course I do, and Mrs. Quest too. Ah! she’s a pretty one, she is.” Here the lady burst into a flood of incoherent abuse which tired her so much that she had a fourth brandy-and-soda; George mixed it for her and he mixed it strong. “Is he rich?” she asked as she put down the glass. “What! Laryer Quest? Well I should say that he is about the warmest man in our part of the county.” “And here am I starving,” burst out the horrible woman with a flood of drunken tears. “Starving without a shilling to pay for a cab or a drink while my wedded husband lives in luxury with another woman. You tell him that I won’t stand it; you tell him that if he don’t find a ‘thou.’ pretty quick I’ll let him know the reason why.” “I don’t quite understand, marm,” said George; “there’s a lady down in Boisingham as is the real Mrs. Quest.” “It’s a lie!” she shrieked, “it’s a lie! He married me before he married her. I could have him in the dock to-morrow, and I would, too, if I wasn’t afraid of him, and that’s a fact.” “Come, marm, come,” said George, “draw it mild from that tap.” “You won’t believe me, won’t you?” said the woman, on whom the liquor was now beginning to take its full effect; “then I’ll show you,” and she staggered to a desk, unlocked it and took from it a folded paper, which she opened. It was a properly certified copy of a marriage certificate, or purported so to be; but George, who was not too quick at his reading, had only time to note the name Quest, and the church, St. Bartholomew’s, Hackney, when she snatched it away from him and locked it up again. “There,” she said, “it isn’t any business of yours. What right have you to come prying into the affairs of a poor lone woman?” And she sat down upon the sofa beside him, threw her long arm round him, rested her painted face upon his shoulder and began to weep the tears of intoxication.