"No, I cannot promise," said Basil, moving away. "You must promise," said the woman, moving after him. "I will not leave you till you do. I tell you it is your right--it is more than your right, it is your duty."
Seeing there was no other way to release himself from her, Basil said, "I promise."
"On your sacred word of honour," said the woman.
"On my sacred word of honour."
"I will trust you; there was a time when I would not. Good night. To-morrow, at ten."
She glided away, and Basil was once more alone. The misery of his own circumstances was no encouragement to him to dwell upon the adventure, and he dismissed it from his mind, accounting for the woman's strange utterances by the supposition that she was of weak intellect. He passed the night in the open air, and in the morning bought one pennyworth of bread--it was cheaper than buying a penny roll--for his breakfast. This and water from a drinking-fountain satisfied hunger and thirst.
"A man can live upon very little," he said to himself, "but how is it going to end?"
It was a pertinent question, and answered itself. The end seemed near and certain.
It was a bright morning, and he walked in the sun. He did not forget the promise he had made to the woman; it was a promise to which he had pledged himself, and even if mischief resulted it must be fulfilled. The name on the card was Mrs. Addison the address, Queen Street, Long Acre. Thither he went, and paused before a milliner's shop, the windows of which were partially masked by shutters. Over the shop front was the name Addison, and the goods displayed bore evidence of a certain prosperity; they were not of the poorest kind. An elderly, grey-haired woman came forward as he entered. Her face was sad and severe, and there was no civility in her voice as she informed him in answer to his question, that he had come to the right address.
"Go through that door," she said with a frown, "up-stairs to the first landing. My daughter expects you. I must ask you to make your visit short."