The man stood waiting somewhat impatiently. All was silent in the square: there were no passers by, except one solitary policeman, who stood to look at them for a moment, and then passed on.
"Drive me to an hotel, please," said Doris at length.
"Yes, lady."
The cabman drove her to two or three hotels without avail; either they were closed for the night, or the night-porter on duty refused to admit a lady without any luggage.
Again the cabman came to Doris for orders. "What will you do?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Doris, pitifully, with quivering lips. She felt terribly desolate and lonely.
Fortunately for her the cabman happened to be an honest man, who had a wife and children of his own, therefore seeing his "fare" so helpless, and so entirely ignorant of the great city, with its immense dangers for a young and solitary girl, stranded in its midst, in the night-time, he suggested, "You might go to a decent lodging, lady, until morning."
"Yes, I should be glad. But how can I find one? Do you know of one?" asked the girl desperately.
"There's my mother at King's Cross. She's poor, but respectable, and she lets lodgings and happens to have no one in them at present."
Doris looked at him as he spoke. Could she venture to go to his mother? He seemed an honest man. And what else could she do?