“Dear! dear!” murmured the ballet-dancer; “and she going through so much, with rich friends looking for her all the time. But, you see, poor people can’t afford to take in a newspaper; and there might be only a threepenny paper standing between a man and a million of money, and he none the wiser.” She handed Francis the address, which was a very long one. And then she gave him divers verbal directions, the gist of which was, that he was to find a certain public-house called “The Man in the Moon,” and was then to inquire of anybody for a certain street, and was to go a little way farther and inquire again, thus accomplishing his journey by easy stages and frequent inquiries. But Francis was much too full of hope to be dashed by any small difficulties. He grasped the dancer’s hand in his heartiest way, and left Brydges Street in impetuous haste. The hansom cabman, who met him at the corner of Russell Street, and drove him thence to “The Man in the Moon,” was a lucky individual, and went home rejoicing to the bosom of his family. But after dismissing the cabman, Francis had to thread his way through intricacies which would have been maddening in a hansom cab, and were only to be overcome by repeated inquiries and frequent reference to Miss Willoughby’s written direction. At last, however, while the bells were still ringing for afternoon service, Francis Tredethlyn found the place, which was a damp little street without any thoroughfare, called Pollard’s Row. Pollard’s Row, with the summer sunlight on it, and given up entirely to the occupation of one mongrel dog, which was lying with his head upon his forepaws, snapping at imaginary flies, was a dreary place to contemplate; Francis Tredethlyn troubled himself very little about the aspect of the neighbourhood. He walked rapidly past the little row of houses until he came to No. 17, which was occupied by the respectable elderly person, otherwise Mrs. Clinnock. The elderly person made some faint show of a commercial character in the shape of three very green pickle-bottles containing confectionery, all more or less melted out of its normal mould by long exposure to the sun, and a few gingerbread figures of weird and ghastly outline, supposed to represent the human form. A tattered chintz curtain hung upon a limp string, and made a background to these wares. Looking across this curtain Francis Tredethlyn saw a woman sitting in the ruddy glow of the fire, with a child in her lap, and knew by the beating of his heart that he had found his cousin Susan.