The cab stopped with a jerk and a voice from above—never having been in a hansom before, at first Godfrey could not locate it—exclaimed: “Here’s your Ball, young gent. Now you’d better hop out and dance.” His fare began to explain the situation through the little trap in the roof, demonstrating to the Jehu that his object was to observe the ball from without, not to dance at it within, and that it was necessary for him to drive on a little further. That worthy grew indignant. “Blowed if I don’t believe you’re a bilk,” he shouted through the hole. “Here, you pay me my fare and hook it, young codger.” Godfrey descended and commenced a search for money, only to remember that he had left his purse in his bag at the hotel. This also he explained with many apologies to the infuriated cabby, two gorgeous flunkeys who by now had arrived to escort him into the house, and a group of idlers who had collected round the door. “I told yer he was a bilk. You look after your spoons, Thomas; I expect that’s wot he’s come for. Now you find that bob, Sonny, or I fetches the perlice.” Then an inspiration flashed on Godfrey’s bewildered mind. Suddenly he recollected that, by the direction of heaven, Mrs. Parsons had sewn a ten shilling piece into the lining of his waistcoat, “in case he should ever want any money sudden-like.” He undid that garment and heedless of the mockery of the audience, began to feel wildly at its interior calico. Joy! there it was in the lefthand corner. “I have money here if only I can get it out,” he gasped. A woman in the gathering crowd, perhaps from pity, or curiosity, in the most unexpected way produced a pair of scissors from her pocket with which he began to hack at the waistcoat, gashing it sadly. At length the job was done and the half-sovereign appeared wrapped in a piece of cotton wool. “Take it,” said Godfrey, “and go away. Let it teach you to have more trust in your fellow creatures, Mr. Cabman.” The man seized the coin, examined it by the light of his lamp, tasted it, bit it, threw it on the top of the cab to see that it rang true, then with a “Well, I’m blowed!” whipped up his horse and went off. Godfrey followed his example, as the flunkeys and the audience supposed to recover his change, though the last thing he was thinking of at that moment was change—except of locality. He ran a hundred yards or more to a part of the square where there was no lamp, then paused to consider. “I have made a fool of myself,” he reflected, “as Isobel always says I do when I get the chance. I have come all this way and been abused and laughed at for nothing.” Then his native determination began to assert itself. Why should it be for nothing? There was the house, and in it was Isobel, and oh! he wanted to see her. He crossed to the square-garden side and walked down in the shadow of the trees which grew there.