"She gave me nothing. The lady had only her bare fare to Victoria, and if you know her she will tell you that I got her ticket and she had no money left."
"You're new to this place. I never saw you here before. Go away. Only you are so young a fool I'd get you into trouble."
All this was said in low voices so as to be inaudible to the girl, even if she had been awake, but she was not awake, she was in profound sleep.
The new passenger was seated in the compartment, and, as the porter turned away, he closed and locked the door softly. In less than a minute the train steamed out of the station. The girl slept on with a smile of relief and deliverance around her fresh young mouth.
The second traveller sat facing the engine on the side opposite Edith, and directly in front of her, by the open window. He was a short deformed man and carried a heavy crooked walking-stick. For a few minutes after the train began to move he remained without moving. The girl slept heavily, swaying slightly from side to side with the motion of the train, her two gloved hands lay placidly on her lap. Between the thumb and fore-finger of her right hand was the ticket bought for her by the friendly porter, and representing all the money she had had beyond a few half pence.
When the train had been five minutes on its way and had gained its full speed, the man leaned forward towards the sleeping girl, and with infinite gentleness and care drew the ticket out of her hand, keeping his eyes on her eyelids the whole time. Without taking his eyes off her face, he raised his right hand, thrust it, holding the ticket between his thumb and finger, out of the carriage window, and dropped the ticket into the rushing air. Then he sat back in his corner opposite Edith, and sighed and smiled.
CHAPTER V.
[MR. LEIGH'S DEPUTY.]
It was early in the afternoon the same day, the last Thursday of June. The rain of the night before had been general in the South of England. It had fallen heavily in London, and washed and freshened the dusty, parched streets. Now all London capable of being made fresh and blithe by weather was blazing gallantly in the unclouded radiance of summer. Even Chetwynd Street, a third rate thoroughfare of the less delectable and low-lying part of Westminster, looked gay in comparison with its usual squalor, for it had been scoured clean and sweetened by the waters of Heaven. The wind, and the rain, and the sun of Heaven, were all the friends Chetwynd Street seemed to have. Man had built it. It was man's own, and man seemed to despise his handiwork, and neglect his duty towards what he had made.
Few civilians with good clothes and sound boots visited Chetwynd Street. Policemen go everywhere, and were to be seen in this street now and then, and soldiers often strayed into it, for they are common in all the region. But although the publicans and pawnbrokers of the thoroughfare were well-to-do people, they did not put their wealth upon their backs. It would have been considered ostentatious for ordinary mortals to wear broadcloth within the precincts of the street. The sumptuary laws of the place forbade broadcloth for every-day wear to all except clergymen, doctors, and undertakers. On Sundays, or festivals, such as marriages and funerals, broad-cloth might be worn by the prosperous tradespeople without exciting anger or reproach.