"Safe so far," he muttered, when he found himself in the dark street. When he was at a safe distance he hailed a cab, and was driven to the east of the City, within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's house. He was too cunning to drive nearer. Paying the cabman liberally, he strolled away with apparent carelessness. The next thing to be done was to convey the letter to Mary Parkinson without any one but themselves being the wiser. A difficult undertaking at such an hour; he was not even sure of the house in which Mary lived. It was necessary, therefore, he decided regretfully, to obtain the assistance of a stranger. He arrived at the street in which Mr. Parkinson lived, and he looked about him. A policeman passed him, but he dared not seek the aid of a public officer. The policeman being out of sight, fortune favored him. Wretched wayfarers who had no roof to cover them, and no money to pay for a bed, are not uncommon in these poor thoroughfares, and one approached him now and looked into his face. She was, alas! a young woman, scarcely twenty years of age. He accosted her without hesitation. "Do you want to earn half a crown?" he asked. She laughed hysterically, and held out her hand. He put sixpence into it, saying: "The other two shillings if you can tell me what I want to know." "Right you are," she said, recklessly; "fire away." "Are you acquainted with this neighborhood?" he said. "What game are you up to?" she cried. "Never mind my game," he said, "but answer my questions. Do you know these streets?" "Do I know 'em? Why, I was born in 'em!" "In which one?" "In this; and wish I hadn't been." "Never mind that. You know the people who live in these houses, then?" "Know 'em? By heart! And they know me--rather! Ask any of 'em what they think of Blooming Bess." "Can you keep a secret?" "Make it worth my while." "Will a crown be worth your while?" "Depends." "You shall have a crown, and if you hold your tongue, in a fortnight I'll come and find you and give you another crown. I suppose you'll be hereabouts." "Unless I'm in jail, or dead! I don't much care which." "It isn't much of a secret, only don't talk about it to any one. You know this street, you say, and everybody in it. Just walk along with me, and tell me who lives in the houses." "That's a lot to make a fuss about," said the wretched girl, and walked past the houses in his company, and said, here lives such and such a one, here lives so-and-so, here's a dozen of 'em living together, and so on, and so on. Now and again, to put her off the scent, Mark Inglefield asked questions concerning strangers, as to their trade, families, and other particulars. At length she came to Mr. Parkinson's house, and said, "Here lives old Parkinson." "And who is he?" "Oh, one of us," replied the girl. "One of us! "Leastways, no better than the others. No more is his gal. I'm as good as she is, any day." "His daughter, do you mean?"