“Vulgar cuff-links are a very small thing to go on,” she reflected; “but I will try, and in the meantime Cristiane and Miles can find out what sort of a house this is without me. I don’t think they’ll have long to wait, either.” She looked doubtfully at the few coins she had, as she put them into her pocket. “If they’re not enough, looking at them won’t help,” she thought. “They will get me there, and that’s all I care for. If I fail I am not likely to need any. If I don’t fail”--she laughed--“some one else will pay my fare for the last time to Marchant’s Hold.” She opened her door noiselessly and listened. There was only the cheerful clink that came intermittently from the dining-room. There was not a step or a sound on her floor. Without a click to betray her, she locked her door behind her, pocketing the key. Her room was in darkness, and no one would know the key was gone till late in the morning; when it did not matter if the whole world knew. “Marcus may be certain I’ve gone to London, but it will take a cleverer man than Marcus to find me,” she thought, as she went softly down the stairs. The dining-room door was closed, the servants safe inside, the front door swung noiselessly on its hinges as she slipped out unseen, and closed it behind her without one telltale sound. In the dark she stood looking at the house, with curiously hard eyes. She was free. She was going to London with that scarab in her pocket, to bring home his crime to the man who did it. Going alone, almost penniless, to the cold winter streets, friendless, powerless, but determined. And she left behind her, at the mercy of the merciless, the girl whose only protection she had been. Left her with scarcely a thought, without pity, with nothing in her hand but the one purpose--to clear her mother before Cylmer and the world, to get out of Wray’s power forever. A train would leave the station for London at half-past nine. At twelve o’clock she would be there, with just one night’s start of Marcus Wray. One night in which to ruin him. The girl’s lips tightened as she hurried along her lonely road. “I may have more. They don’t know me at the station, and they will never think it is a girl dressed like this whom he means. He will ask for Miss Trelane, and I don’t look much like Miss Trelane.” She was right, for the man who sold her her ticket never glanced at her. There had been an excursion to some races, and the station was crowded. The shabbily dressed girl got into her third-class carriage unnoticed. And once the train started and she was safe, she dropped asleep, in utter weariness, never once stirring till they were in the London station. She got out, and went quickly from the glaring lights and the crowd into the comparative darkness of the streets. It was well they were used to her locked door, otherwise they might have telegraphed and stopped her. But once out of the station she was secure.