Nance and Scrivener left the room. A hansom was in waiting outside the hotel.
Nance entered and Scrivener immediately followed her. He gave directions in a low voice to the driver, and the cab started forward at a quick pace. Presently Scrivener put his hand through the little window in the roof.
“A sovereign,” he called to the driver, “if you get us to our destination in a quarter of an hour from now.”
The man whipped up his horse.
“You said that my husband was very ill; is he in danger?” asked Nance.
“He is, madam, in extreme danger.”
Nance did not ask another question. She locked her hands tightly under her cloak. Her face was deathlike. She looked like one carved in stone.
By-and-by the cab entered a squalid street leading off the Embankment. It turned to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, and finally drew up at a shabby-looking door. Scrivener jumped out.
“This way, Mrs. Rowton,” he said.