The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves, and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train, while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn. At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every side, then bending down, read attentively the labels on each box. At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the station. Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden agreed readily. “I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which must be well executed, or not at all.” Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn the dear, kind face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be at rest.” “Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.” “Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before he left England. “No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not until we have played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said good-night, and went to his own room.