Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself.
Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window.
“Please stop, cabman,” she ordered.
The man pulled up. It was not a difficult affair.
“Is this Montague Street, W.C.?” she asked.
The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not.
“Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. “I want to find an address.”
The man contented himself with a nod. Anna rummaged about in her dressing-case, and finally drew out a letter. On the envelope was written—
Sydney Courtlaw, Esq.,
13, Montague St.