In the great wilderness of houses which made up the overgrown city in which he dwelt, where was the one he sought?
Utterly dazed, he stood trying to think out in which direction it lay, and moment by moment his feeling of utter helplessness increased.
He had not taken the slightest note of the direction in which the carriage was driven that night, for he had sat listening to his excited companion, half wondering at the way in which he was influenced by her presence.
The carriage, he did remember, was driven very fast, but it must have been at least a quarter of an hour before it was drawn up at the kerb before the old-fashioned mansion.
Yes, he did note that old-fashioned mansion, in a wide street, too—it must have been a wide street to have allowed for so great a distance between the kerb and the two steps up from the pavement; and the house stood back, too, some distance.
That was something, but a chill of despair came over him as he felt that these features applied to thousands of houses.
Still, it was old-fashioned, and the hall was wide, just such a house as he would find in Bloomsbury.
“Or Westminster,” he muttered. “But the cabman was told to drive to Chelsea. A blind to confuse me, on the chance that I did not notice when I was brought there that night.
“Bloomsbury or Westminster,” he said to himself; “and chance or instinct may help me,” he mused, as, feeble as was the clue, he felt that it was something to act upon, something to give him work that might deaden the wild excitement. He set off at once in the direction of the old-fashioned, grim-looking streets half a mile east of where he had stood thinking, ending by taking a passing cab, for he felt faint and bathed in a cold perspiration, and being driven slowly through street and square till long after daylight, and then home, sick at heart in the despondent feeling which came over him.
“It’s hopeless—impossible,” he said to himself, as he wearily let himself in with his latch-key, while the cabman drove slowly off, saying—