"That is true. Wait a moment." He rejoined the woman, and after exchanging a few words with her, returned to our Reporter. "You will not publish the address I am about to give you?" "Not if you do not wish it." "I do not wish it. We must not play with reputations--especially with the reputation of a woman. Have you pencil and paper? Thank you. Call to-night at ten o'clock at this address." He wrote an address in our Reporter's note-book, and, directly afterwards, left Leicester Square with his newly-found friend. As he turned in the direction of Piccadilly, he hailed a cab, into which he and his companion hastily scrambled. By ten o'clock that night our Reporter paused before the door of the house in which he expected to find Antony Cowlrick, and debated with himself whether he should inquire for the man by name. It was quite natural, he thought, that a person who had been placed in a position so unpleasant as Antony Cowlrick should wish to avoid the disagreeable curiosity of prying eyes and vulgar tongues, and that in a new lodging he should give another name than his own. The house was situated in one of the lowest neighbourhoods, where only the poorest people dwell. There were at least half-a-dozen small bells on the right hand side of the door, and our Reporter fell into deep disgrace by pulling them one after another, and bringing down persons whose faces were strange to him. He felt himself in a difficulty, when, giving a description of the man and the woman he wished to see, one lodger said, "O, it's the second-floor back;" and another said, "Oh, it's the third-floor front;" and another said, "What do yer mean by comin' 'ere at this time o' night rousing up people as want to be abed and asleep?" Now, this last rebuke was not taken in good part by our Reporter, whose knowledge of the slums of London, being somewhat extensive, had led him to the belief that householders and lodgers in these localities seldom go to bed before the public-house lights are put out. Sad, indeed, is it to reflect that the Gin-shop is the Church of the Poor, and that it is open from early morn till midnight to lead poverty and ignorance to lower and lower depths, in which it is impossible for purity and innocence to find a resting place! At length, in despair, our Reporter, having no alternative, inquired of a woman in the house whether a person of the name of Cowlrick was within. The woman looked suspiciously at our Reporter, and said she would call "her man." Her man came, and our Reporter repeated his question. "Cowlrick!" cried the man. "Send I may live if that ain't the name of the feller as was up at the perlice court for the murder in Great Porter Square! Yer don't mean to say that it's 'im you've come to inquire for at a respectable 'ouse?" "Shut the door in his face, Jim!" called out the woman, from the top of the stairs.