The barrister thought she intended to go somewhere by train. He quickened his pace in order to be able to rapidly obtain a ticket and thus keep up with her. Herein he was lucky. To his surprise, she passed out of the station on the embankment side. He followed, and nowhere could he see her. Then he remembered the steps leading to the footpath along the Hungerford Bridge. Running up these steps he soon caught sight of the young woman, who was walking rapidly towards Waterloo. A man of the artisan class stared at her as she passed, and said something to her. She turned fiercely. "Do you want a swipe on the jaw?" she demanded. No, he did not. What had he done, he would like to know. "You mind your own business," she said. "Where am I goin', indeed. What's it got to do with you?" The episode was valuable to the listening barrister. It classified the anxious inquirer after Hume's health. Her abashed admirer hung back, and the girl resumed her onward progress. The man was conscious that the gentleman behind him must have heard what passed. He endeavoured to justify himself. "She's pretty O.T., she is," he grinned. "Do you know her?" said Brett. "I know her by sight. Seen her in the York now an' then." "She can evidently take care of herself." "Ra--ther. Don't you so much as look at her, mister, or off goes your topper into the river. She's in a bad temper to-night." Brett laughed and walked ahead. On reaching the Surrey side the girl made for the Waterloo Road. There she mounted on top of a 'bus. The barrister went inside. He thought of the "man with black, snaky eyes," who "took penn'orths" all the way from the Elephant to Whitehall. And now he, Brett, took a penn'orth to the Elephant. The 'bus reached that famous centre of humanity, passing thence through Newington Butts to the Kennington Park Road. In the latter thoroughfare the girl skipped down from the roof, and disdaining the conductor's offer to stop, swung herself lightly to the ground. The barrister followed, and soon found himself tracking her along a curved street of dingy houses. Into one of these she vanished. It chanced to be opposite a gas-lamp, and as he walked past he made out the number--37. Externally it was exactly like its neighbours, dull, soiled, pinched, old curtains, worn blinds, blistered paint. He knew that if he walked inside he would tread on a strip of oilcloth, once gay in red and yellow squares, but now worn to a dirty grey uniformity. In the "hall" he would encounter a rickety hat-stand faced by an ancient print entitled "Idle Hours," and depicting two ladies, reclining on rocks, attired in tremendous skirts, tight jackets, and diminutive straw hats perched between their forehead and chignons--in the middle distance a fat urchin, all hat and frills, staring stupidly at the ocean.