and be prepared to act accordingly.” We both leaned forward. “Don’t look round, cabman, put your hand back, there are two pounds for you as your fare. Take no notice of me whatever, but listen and obey my directions. We are followed, is I have ascertained by looking back several times, by a Hansom. Your number, I expect, is marked plain at the back of your cab?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought as much. Well, in the Hansom sits a gentleman I wish to avoid (I knew him to be a detective, but did not choose to enlighten Cabby). I must avoid him.”
“All right, sir. Come up old hoss.” (Lash, lash.)
“No, no, that won’t do, his horse is better, his cab runs lighter than yours. Now, attend. Just beyond that large van of Pickford’s, which is standing still in the distance, there is a turn to the right which cabmen sometimes take when driving to Hyde Park Corner. It is moreover an unfrequented street. If I mistake not there is just room for you to get round inside the van. At any rate, you must try it. I will pay for any damage done. The Hansom being broader will be obliged to sweep round outside, and may be stopped a little by the stream of carriages.”
“There is no room for me, sir, there.”
“There is, you must try it. The moment you are round the corner, slacken your pace to a slow walk, and the instant you hear the door slam, drive on to Hyde Park Corner at your usual pace. Tell my following friend what you like when you get there. Now, there is another pound for you. Go at it hard—neck or nothing.”
Cabby obeyed. A bump, a scrape, an oath, a “Now then, stoopid, where are you a driving to?” and we were in the smooth water of a quiet street. The pace slackened—we jumped out—I slammed the door—Cabby drove on. We vanished into a shop, and had the inexpressible pleasure of seeing the Hansom roll by, steadily trotting after its fast receding, supposed prey. All this took place in less time than any one would occupy in reading the last few lines. I purchased something in the shop, made the middy light a fresh cigar, and hailed the first cabman I met, telling him to drive to Notting Hill. Not a word had the middy spoken till now, when I heard—
“And so you cannot assist me, sir?”
“Not a bit more than I have done, and am now doing, I feel I am a match for any detectives, and can give them the slip as you have seen; but what to do at night in London with an unprotected young lady in gentleman’s attire, passes my comprehension.”
“Sir,” she said, with animation, “did you, do you, for a moment doubt that I was speaking the truth, when I said that I was not acting wrongly?”
“On my word,” replied I, “I did not, do not doubt you: at any rate, I am convinced that you honestly conceive that circumstances justify your taking the step you have taken.”
“And you would agree with me,” said she “if you knew them. Now we part, oblige me by giving me the names of three or four of the first chemists in town, and of three or four respectable married doctors.”
“I will, if you will assure me that suicide is not what you are meditating.”
“I give you my word that that is not the case. Circumstances may warrant my doing what I am doing; but cannot, in my opinion, justify any sane creature in precipitating himself uncalled for before his Almighty Father.”
I gave her what she requested, and offered her money.
“No, thank you, I have plenty of that; and now, good-bye, sir. God bless you for your kindness to a persecuted, helpless, suffering, but not wicked girl.”
She hysterically pressed my hand for a moment, then recovering herself, said:—“Stop the cab, please sir—get out—tell the man to drive on. May God bless you for your kindness.”
I raised her not unwilling hand to my lips, and did as she directed. In another moment I stood alone in Oxford Street. Well, thought I, is it a dream? Am I a fool? No, it is no dream: you are no fool. You have to the best of your intention acted kindly. It is a mystery: you will never read it. I will though, said I, to my mind, and forthwith commenced walking to my chambers in the Temple.
Three Hundred Pounds Reward.—Whereas, on the 17th of this month, a young lady, aged 19, left her home, near Reigate, and proceeded in the direction of London,—this is to give notice that the above-mentioned sum will be paid to any one who will give such information as shall lead to her discovery. She is good-looking, has light hair, blue eyes, and a Grecian nose. Height, about 5 ft. 4 in. Address A. B., &c.
Such was the advertisement which two days after the last-mentioned occurrence, met my eye in the second column of the “Times.” Poor girl, thought I. In the course of the same week, I was again obliged to travel by the railroad which started from London Bridge. I missed my train, and having two hours to wait, I resolved to pay a visit to an old female servant of our family who had married a detective policeman, and lived near the London Bridge terminus. I found her at home. Not long after her husband came in. The subject uppermost in my mind was quickly brought forward.
“Curious circumstance that, sir, which occurred on the line the other day, when a young lady managed to escape from us all. Of course, too, you have seen the advertisement in the “Times.” Wish I could discover the runaway: why 300l. would be a small fortune to Sarah and myself.”
“Have you any clue?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, sir! we all but had them. You see, sir, not only was the train examined, but all the foot-passengers and carriages as they left the station. The telegraphic message had been most positive, and 300l. reward, which it offered, put us all on the look-out. Unfortunately, I examined the foot-passengers; had I taken the cabs, the young lady, though so well disguised, would not have escaped.”
“Thank goodness!” muttered I, inwardly, “you did not examine the cabs. Well, but how did. she manage to get away?” I asked.
“Why, sir, you will hardly believe it—but dressed as a midshipman, in a cab, with a gentle-
