That hateful old woman’s prophecy returned upon Sir Philip’s brain with maddening iteration. “You shall be wretched at home, and hated abroad! No one shall ever love you! Your children shall bring disgrace and shame upon you! You shall die in a miserable garret, and I, Sarah Carewe, shall live to laugh at you as you lie dying!” The first part of the prophecy was being verified indeed; as to the last, that was, of course, sheer mouthing. No doubt the old hag who uttered it, and who would by this time have been over eighty, had long been mouldering in her grave, while he, Sir Philip Cranstoun---- “I beg your pardon, sir, but is your name Sir Philip Cranstoun?” The speaker was a respectably dressed man of swarthy complexion and handsome features, apparently about five and thirty years of age. “Why do you want to know?” the Baronet inquired curtly, eying the stranger, who had the appearance of a well-to-do mechanic, with suspicion. “I beg pardon, sir, but it’s about your daughter, a young lady called Miss Stella Cranstoun, I want to speak to you.” “What about her?” “Well, sir, I’m a Surrey man, and I know you and her by sight. I’m working in London now, and in the house in Whitechapel where I’m lodging a young lady was brought three days ago, in the care of two elderly women, who won’t let her put her head outside the door. And I’d take my oath, sir, she’s your daughter, Miss Stella Cranstoun. I can take you to the house, sir, in a cab, if you like. I was half a mind to write about it down to the Chase, but I thought how you’d think it a liberty; but as soon as I spotted you just now as I was going back to my work, thinks I, I must up and speak to him.” The man’s manner was so genuine, and the affair of such pressing importance that Sir Philip, after a moment’s hesitation, decided to accompany him. A four-wheeled cab was crawling past, driven by a dark-faced, clean-shaven man, no longer young. The cabman pulled up as he saw Sir Philip looking for a conveyance, and the latter sprang in and ordered the man who had addressed him to take his place on the box and direct the driver. This order was at once obeyed. Once on their way toward Whitechapel, the two men looked at each other. The Fates were against Sir Philip Cranstoun that day, for the driver was his brother-in-law, James Carewe, whom he had caused to serve five years in prison, and his companion was James’ younger brother Brian, who had helped Clare Lady Cranstoun to escape from her husband’s home.