That destination was Kew Bridge, where it abuts on a little-known neighbourhood called Strand-on-the-Green.
At the foot of Kew Bridge, the wretched and hunted woman halted, and paid the driver his extravagant fare. What did it matter what she paid to-night? To-morrow she might not be able to pay. She shuddered as she thought of that to-morrow.
The taxi-driver drove slowly out of sight. She waited, from a sense of habitual caution, till he was well out of the way. And then, remembering everything, she smiled bitterly. Was there any need of caution now?
She went down a narrow lane, halted at the door of a small cottage, and rang the front-door bell. As she did so, she was aware of a man a few yards away from her, who seemed to be strolling aimlessly about, a man dressed in ill-fitting clothes, and heavy boots.
A detective certainly! This man had followed her from Eaton Place in a taxi almost as swift as her own. Bryant knew his business, he was not going to lose sight of her, or of her reputed cousin, George Dutton.
The door was opened cautiously by George Dutton, alias George Burton.
It was a small furnished cottage that he had rented for some months past, at a rent commensurate with his means. He kept no servant; a feeble old woman came in the morning to clean him up and prepare his breakfast. When he came back at night from the not very prosperous bucket-shop, he looked after himself, and cooked over a gas-stove his evening meal.
The evenings were drawing in, and it was rather a dark night. He peered for a moment at his visitor, before he recognised her.
"Stella, by all that is wonderful." He called her by the new name, not the old one of Norah. "Come in, dear, but your arrival in this unexpected fashion does not suggest good news."
She passed hastily through the open doorway. "Shut it quick," she said, in a low, hoarse voice. "There is a man watching outside, I am sure he is a detective."