“Jacob Gray.”
The people glanced at each other, and then several left the shop, considering Jacob Gray as the more interesting person of the two to make inquiries about.
“Where will you go, my dear?” said the owner of the shop.
“I have but one friend,” said Ada, “to whom there is any hope of sending. He has called himself my friend, and his voice was sincere. I will believe that he sought me with kindly feelings. His name is Hartleton—he is a magistrate.”
“Sir Francis Hartleton?”
“Yes—the same.”
“If he knows you and is your friend,” said one, “you need look no farther, for he is a good man, and universally esteemed.”
“I thank you for those words,” cried Ada. “And—and tell me—do any of you know Albert Seyton?”
All shook their heads, and one man remarked,—“That he knew an Albert Brown, which was the nearest he could come to it.”
“I will take you to Sir Francis Hartleton’s,” said the man of the shop. Before Ada could reply, the door was opened, and a stranger walked in, saying,—