"Well, I'm not afraid of that," he retorted. "Go at once and see the people; if the rooms are all right, take them. Here's money; pay a quarter in advance. You need not give any names, or anything of that sort; it's a small place, and the money ought to be sufficient." It was at that moment that there came a knock at the outer door; immediately afterwards Jervis Fanshawe was announced. Murray Olivant, who seemed elated at the prospect of his new adventure, pointed to the advertisement, and showed it to Fanshawe. "Tinman here doesn't seem to like the idea of Lincoln's Inn Fields," said Olivant with a laugh. "What's your opinion, Fanshawe?" Jervis Fanshawe stared at the newspaper for a moment or two; then he raised his eyes to mine. It seemed in that moment, as he looked at me, that there was a frightened look in his face; I wondered if he read my own thoughts. "Yes," he said, turning to Olivant, and handing back the newspaper, "I should think Lincoln's Inn Fields is the very spot." I secured the rooms within an hour. It was strange to me to walk again in that place, over whose pavements my uneasy feet had trod twenty years before, that time I waited for Gavin Hockley. I was glad to find that the rooms were not in that building; but they were too close at hand to be pleasant. I walked away, with the old thoughts beginning to surge up again in my brain; and once again I was desperately afraid. I knew that some grim Fate was driving me on; I could only set my weak shoulders against the storm that pressed me forward; but I was powerless to stay the force of it. I came away from the flat, leaving Jervis Fanshawe and the manservant still there. I understood that the manservant was to be sent away that night, and the flat locked up. I walked to the lodging that the elder Barbara had taken; I felt that I owed it to her to tell her at least that her child was gone, but was safe from Murray Olivant. The decent woman who opened the door to me told me that "Mrs. Avaline" was at home; it had only occurred to me at the last moment to ask for her in that name she had given herself. Barbara met me at the door of the room; she held out her hands to me, and seemed, I thought, strangely excited. Nor would she for a moment let me into the room; she stood there looking at me, and I felt her hands tremble in mine. "Guess--guess what has happened!" she whispered; and at the look in her eyes I suddenly felt myself trembling too. I thrust her aside, and went quickly into the little shabby room. A lamp was burning on the table, and some needlework lay beside it. And on a couch under the window lay that younger Barbara--peacefully sleeping. I stood there, looking down at her like a man in a dream; I could not understand what had happened. It was only when the mother began to speak to me in her quiet voice that I understood how she had found the child.