"Something is sure to turn up," he muttered, "but the right thing is a deuced long time in coming my way." Hearing footsteps in the lane he looked up and saw a gypsy woman, with a basket on her arm, filled with bunches of primroses. She was young, and not ill looking. Many of her tribe wandered about the Sussex lanes, and he merely regarded her with ordinary interest. She saw him through the hedge, and stopped. "What do you want?" he asked. "Money, my child is ill," she said. "Where is your husband?" "I do not know, I do not care. He has left me, but I have the child. He is in Brighton, he will die if I cannot get money, I must have it." "I am sorry for you," he said. "Money is scarce with me, but I can let you have a few shillings." "God bless you, kind gentleman." It occurred to him her story might be untrue, and he looked at her suspiciously. She saw his glance, and with the quickness of her race knew why he hesitated. "I have told you the truth, my child is very ill, he is all I have in the world." He pushed his way through the hedge, and stood before her. She looked into his face with sad, black eyes, in which there was no boldness. "Here is five shillings for you, I am as badly off as yourself for money." She curtseyed as she accepted it, and said: "You do not look like a poor man." "I am; I am a failure," he said, smiling. She shook her head. "Your turn will come. May I look at your hand?" He laughed again as he said: "I have no faith in fortune telling." "I do not wish to tell your fortune, I can read your hand if you will let me." He held out his hand, and for some minutes she regarded it silently. They made a picturesque group under the budding trees, with the birds peeping down and twittering in surprise, and the primroses glistening all around. "There are riches in store for you, there are dangers to be met with in a far off land. You will live long but there are years of strife before you. It is a good hand, the lines are true, it is not the hand of a man who will fail when the time comes." He was interested, although he did not believe her story. "Then there is no luck in store for me in England?" he asked. She shook her head. "None until you return," she replied. "And where must I go? To what land must I journey to gain these riches?" "That I cannot tell, you must trust to fate." "I am not likely to leave England." "You will, and before long." "You speak positively." "I am sure of what I say." "You are going to Brighton, it is a long walk. Go to Hassocks, that will be nearer; here is another half-crown, you can take the train from there." He did not wait for her thanks, but struck out across country, he knew his way well. The five or six miles to Brighton were nothing to him, and he arrived there in time for dinner. He had modest apartments in the Old Steyne overlooking the gardens, in a very quiet house where there were no other lodgers, and his modest requirements were easily met.