On going out Beatrice could not find the cabman whom she had employed. After looking around for him a long time she found that he had gone. She was surprised and vexed. At the same time she could not account for this, but thought that perhaps he had been drinking and had forgotten all about her. On making this discovery she was on the point of going back and telling Langhetti, but a cabman followed her persistently, promising to take her wherever she wished, and she thought that it would be foolish to trouble Langhetti about so small a matter; so that at length she decided to employ the persevering cabman, thinking that he could take her to her lodgings as well as any body else. The cabman started off at a rapid pace, and went on through street after street, while Beatrice sat thinking of the evening’s performance. At last it seemed to her that she had been a much longer time than usual, and she began to fear that the cabman had lost his way. She looked out. They were going along the upper part of Oxford Street, a great distance from where she lived. She instantly tried to draw down the window so as to attract the cabman’s attention, but could not move it. She tried the other, but all were fast and would not stir. She rapped at the glass to make him hear, but he took no notice. Then she tried to open the door, but could not do so from the inside. She sat down and thought. What could be the meaning of this? They were now going at a much faster rate than is common in the streets of London, but where she was going she could not conjecture. She was not afraid. Her chief feeling was one of indignation. Either the cabman was drunk--or what? Could he have been hired to carry her off to her enemies? Was she betrayed? This thought flashed like lightning through her mind. She was not one who would sink down into inaction at the sudden onset of terror. Her chief feeling now was one of indignation at the audacity of such an attempt. Obeying the first impulse that seized her, she took the solid roll of music which she carried with her and dashed it against the front window so violently that she broke it in pieces. Then she caught the driver by the sleeve and ordered him to stop. “All right,” said the driver, and, turning a corner, he whipped up his horses, and they galloped on faster than ever. “If you don’t stop I’ll call for help!” cried Beatrice. The driver’s only answer was a fresh application of the whip. The street up which they turned was narrow, and as it had only dwelling-houses it was not so brightly lighted as Oxford Street. There were but few foot-passengers on the sidewalk. As it was now about midnight, most of the lights were out, and the gas-lamps were the chief means of illumination.