A chuckle, hastily choked, greeted this. “No, of course I’m not. I couldn’t manage a bandbox, so I had to tie all my things up in a shawl. And now I think I must be going, if you please.”
“Drunk I undoubtedly am,” said Sir Richard, “but some remnants of sanity still remain with me. You cannot, my good child, wander about the streets of London at this hour of night, and dressed in those clothes. I believe I ought to ring that bell, and hand you over to your—aunt, did you say?”
Two agitated hands clasped his arm. “Oh, don’t!” begged the fugitive. “Please don’t!”
“Well, what am I to do with you?” asked Sir Richard.
“Nothing. Only tell me the way to Holborn!”
“Why Holborn?”
“I have to go to the White Horse Inn, to catch the stagecoach for Bristol.”
“That settles it,” said Sir Richard. “I will not set you a foot on your way until I have the whole story from you. It’s my belief you are a dangerous criminal.”
“I am not!” said the fugitive indignantly. “Anyone with the veriest speck of sensibility would feel for my plight! I am escaping from the most odious persecution.”
“Fortunate child!” said Sir Richard, taking her bundle from her. “I wish I might do the same. Let us remove from this neighbourhood. I have seldom seen a street that depressed me more. I can’t think how I came here. Do you feel that our agreeable encounter would be improved by an exchange of names, or are you travelling incognita?”