"You know the address, I suppose?" I laughed, for to me the idea of one being thus lost in London was amusing. "Yes: Ellerdale Street." "Where?" "I don't know," she answered, "except that it's a long way from here; somewhere on the other side of London. We came by train." "Ellerdale Street," I repeated reflectively. "I've never heard of it." There are, of course, thousands of streets in the suburbs of which nobody ever hears, save when somebody commits a crime of more than ordinary violence, and papers give the unknown thoroughfare undue prominence. "But the strange thing is that my friends, two ladies, should have disappeared so quickly," she went on, pausing on the pavement before the theatre as we went out and gazing blankly about her. "They must surely have missed me, and if so, one would think they would remain till everybody had gone, and then search for me." "Yes," I said, "it is certainly rather remarkable," and together we walked to the corner of Leicester Street, where there is another exit of the theatre, but my pretty companion could discover neither of the ladies who had accompanied her. Her voice was low and refined, her well-gloved hands small; yet her severe style of dress seemed to speak of poverty which she would fain conceal. She wore no jewellery, not even a brooch; and I fell to wondering whether she might be a governess, or perhaps a shop-assistant who had come from a provincial town to "better herself" in London. For fully a quarter of an hour we strolled together, backwards and forwards before the railings of the Empire, which soon became dark and deserted, until we were practically the only loiterers. It certainly struck me as more than strange that her companions, knowing her to be a stranger to London, should thus leave her to her own devices in Leicester Square at midnight. Again, it was curious that she herself should only know the name of the road, and not the district. "You said your friends live in Ellerdale Street," I exclaimed at last, after we had been chatting about the performance, and she had criticised the singers with an artlessness which betrayed that she was entirely unaccustomed to the music-hall. "The best course will be to ask a cabman." A hansom was standing at the kerb. "Do you know of any street named Ellerdale Street?" I asked the driver. "No, sir, I don't," he answered, after a pause, during which time he thought deeply. "There's Ellerslie Road up in Shep'erd's Bush, and Ellesmere Road out at Bow, but I don't know of any others." Then, turning to another man on a cab behind him, he asked: "I say, Sandy, do you know Ellerdale Street?" "No, don't know it at all. Ask a policeman," was the other's gruff response.