In effect, grey dawn is beginning to streak the murky sky with light. She can hear a distant tower clock chiming the hour of five, and she sets down her cup on a chair close by and takes up the little portmanteau. “Time I started,” she mutters to herself, as she cons in her mind Mr. Trackem’s instructions. Léonie is a most perfectly disciplined young lady; she has thoroughly learnt the lesson of obedience. It has never entered her head to disregard or evade her master’s commands. Mr. Trackem has certainly succeeded in teaching her to take a pride in her work, and in training her to a faithful discharge of duty. He has reason to congratulate himself, and to boast that this girl slave has never failed him yet. She passes along the passage leading to the staircase, and descends this latter noiselessly. All is silent throughout the house as she lets herself out of the front door and closes it softly behind her. Then she sets off at a smart walk along the Crescent, and gaining a side street turns down it. The street in question is more or less a mews, but as yet there are very few signs of life within it. Léonie, however, seems quite at home in this place, for she walks down it unhesitatingly, until at length she comes to a halt opposite a stable door. Drawing a key from her pocket she unlocks this door and lets herself in. There are some half-a-dozen horses tied up in an equal number of stalls, and they greet her with neighs and a good deal of grunting and stamping about. A rough shaggy-looking dog, with the coat and body of a stag-hound, and the head and drooping ears of a bloodhound, rises from a bed of hay in the corner of the stable, and comes up to her with wagging tail and a doggy smile on his rough and shaggy face. She pats him kindly. “Come on, Nero,” she says at the same time; “I shall want you.” Then she goes to the corn bin and measures into the sieve a feed of oats, which she takes over to a bay horse at the far end of the stable. This produces a loud protest from the remaining five animals, which to any one acquainted with horse language is unmistakable. Perhaps there is a kind corner in Léonie’s heart. Maybe it is only to secure quiet. Who knows? But she fills up the sieve brimful once more, and divides the oats amongst the five protesting animals. At any rate, it gives them contentment for a while, judging by the crunching and munching that goes on. A little harness-room adjoins the stable, and Léonie dives into this, and unearths a neat light man’s saddle with grey girths and a pair of bright small steels. The saddle is quickly girthed on to the bay horse, and then a plain double snaffle is produced from the same quarter to be slipped in the animal’s mouth directly he has finished his meal. Léonie is anxious to be off before the stable men come in, which will be about six o’clock.