There, but a few yards away, stood two figures. The one was Miriam, the other that of a tall man, whose features Mrs. Darrow could not discern. But she gathered that he was ragged and unkempt, and, from the way he kept looking over his shoulder, evidently apprehensive. Miriam had her hand on his arm, and was speaking hurriedly and low, but in that rarified atmosphere Mrs. Darrow had no difficulty in following every word.
"Oh, Jabez, why did you come here—it is so dangerous."
"No more dangerous than it is in London," growled the man. "Besides, no one bothers about me now."
"You are mistaken—Mr. Barton does for one."
"Barton!—what, the chap who took you up? What does he know of me?"
"Everything."
"You told him then!"
"No. But that night, weak and ill as I was, somehow he seemed to exert a power over me which I couldn't resist, and I told him your real name but nothing more, Jabez; I swear, nothing more!"
"You fool—what more need you tell him. That was quite enough to put him on my track anyway."
"God forgive me, yes!" wept Miriam, wringing her hands. "I know—he employed some man to find out all about you. Oh, Jabez, that is why it is so mad for you to be here, for I fear he knows the truth!"