Why had she looked after us? I could no more tell them that than I could tell why both she and the policeman had followed us with such unfriendly eyes. "Ah!"--the inspector exchanged glances with the Healer--"a possible clue there." I could not imagine what he meant. I could not believe that he meant anything when I saw the expressionless yellow face turned to Mrs. Harborough to say that "in any case" the Victoria policeman would not be on duty now. The inspector talked about what they would do to-morrow. "To-night--to-night; what can we do to-night?" He brought a piece of yellow paper. He put the questions over again, and this time he wrote the answers down with a stump of worn lead-pencil. The glazed paper was like the man, it took impressions grudgingly; it held them very faint. While the blunt lead-pencil laboured across the sheet, something that other man had said to me in the house of horror flashed back across my mind. I had not believed him at the time, still less now, in the presence of the guardians of the City--all these grave and decent people. Shamefaced I asked Mrs. Harborough if the inspector knew of "any house where a woman takes young girls." She and all the rest were one as silent as the other, till I steadied my voice to say again, this time to the man himself: "You have no knowledge, then, of 'such a place'?" "I don't say that," he answered. I looked at him bewildered. "You mean you do know of a house--a house where----" He hesitated too. "We know some," he said. "You don't mean there are many?" Again the hesitation. "Not many of the sort you describe." He took up the stump of pencil hurriedly and held it poised. "Try to recollect some landmark," he said--"some building, some statue that you passed." I did my best to obey--to wrench my mind away from the inside of that place where Betty was ... to think of what we had seen on the way. "Did you drive through the Park?" said my aunt. "No," the inspector answered for me, "she wouldn't take them through the Park; she would go as fast as possible--by side streets----" But I told them we had passed the Park. We had seen flower-beds through a tall iron railing. She said it was Hyde Park, and the flowers were on our left. "Hamilton Place. Park Lane." The inspector punctuated my phrases. "Driving north. You crossed Oxford Street?" I could not say. Other questions, too, I had no answer for. I held my head between my hands trying to force the later impressions out--trying to recover something of that drive I seemed to have taken a hundred years ago in some other state of being. And as I stood so, sobbing inwardly and praying God to let me remember, I heard the inspector say the most horrible thing of all. And it was the horrible thing that gave me a moment of hope. He told my aunt that the police kept a list of "these houses." A list. He said the police were "expected to have an eye on such places." And no one contradicted him.