"We arrange then--I go in first," said the Jew, "and I soothe the child, and take her out to dine at the Tuscany. You do not appear. You comprehend? You do not appear?" "All right, all right," said the other man, testily. "That's all arranged. You take her to dine in a private room----" They moved off together. The last words audible from the Jew were, "A bottle of champagne--after starving all these hours----" It was true. They were gone. They had stood within a few feet of their prey, and had not seen her. How should they expect to see her in that place, and with that companion? The promptness of Felix, joined to her instantaneous, convent-bred obedience, had saved them. It seemed to him, and to her, hours that they stood so, hand gripped in hand, he facing towards the street and she towards the shop window, when he said, his voice tumbling over a sob, "They have turned the corner." She moved slightly towards him--tottered on her feet. He took her by the shoulders, not roughly, but with sternness. "Look here," he said, under his breath, "you can't faint--there isn't time. You have got to pull yourself together and walk--do you hear?" She nodded blindly, still clinging to his hand, and he dragged her across the road, dived into a dark side street, and moved along, as fast as he could induce her wavering feet to follow, for half a mile or more. By that time she was sobbing aloud in her pain and distress, and, fearful lest passers-by should think he was ill-treating her, and interfere, he stopped and sat down upon a doorstep, drawing her to rest her poor battered body against him. "I can only give you just time to draw your breath," he said. "I must get you into some hiding-place. We are not going to be taken now." "Oh, no! No!" She clutched him in terror. "By this time they have found out that you are gone," he said, "and they will be racking their brains to think how. They will find the door locked. They will find the window leading into my room bolted on the inside. They will think that you have fallen upon the lines, and been found--the first thing they are dead certain to do is to go to the railway station to make inquiries. That gives us a bit of a start. If nobody saw us go away together, they will be very hard up for a clew. I left my letters on the table, and I poured away the laudanum out of the mug. They will be fairly puzzled to know what has happened." She had recovered her breath, and she asked tremulously, "What are you going to do?" "The only thing I can think of is to take you to a friend of mine, who is at times in charge of the hay wharf at the canal basin at Limehouse. If he is there he will let us sleep in the hay, and to-morrow I must turn to and earn a few coppers. Have you any change left out of your shilling?" "Three-halfpence." "That will do us. We will have two halfpenny 'bus rides down this road, close by, and, after that, it is only five minutes' walk to the wharf."