Being alone in his room Mark Inglefield set to work at once. The first thing he did was to write a letter, which he addressed to Mary Parkinson. The purport of this letter was that difficulties which had stood in his way were fortunately removed, and that he was now in a position, or would be in a very short time, to fulfil the promise he had made to her. This promise was that he would marry her. Appearances, he said, had been against him, but he would explain all to her personally. The past had been sad, the future should be bright. She could trust him implicitly, and it was a proof of his anxiety to do what was right that he asked her to leave her father's house the moment she received this letter. He was waiting for her, and would take her away at once to commence a new and better life. She must leave the house quietly and secretly, and no one must know of her movements. "In a little while," he wrote, "when you are my wife, we will either send for your father, or you shall go to him and bring him to the home I shall prepare for you. Do not delay; there is not a moment to lose. I have much to tell you, and I cannot rest till I see you." Having reached this point in his letter, he was about to add an instruction to bring this letter with her from her father's house; but he did not write the words. "It might arouse her suspicions," he thought. "She is sure to bring the letter." He signed himself, "Your faithful lover and husband," and then paused again, doubting whether this would be sufficient without a name. He could not put his own, for the reason that she was not acquainted with it. With the boldness of desperation he wrote the name he had assumed when he first introduced himself to her, "Richard Hollingworth," and thought as he did so what a fool he had been not to have assumed a name which was entirely false. But he had not then reckoned with the future, and had not dreamed that an exposure could ever occur. It was too late now to repent; with all these chances against him he had little doubt that he would ultimately triumph.

If he could succeed in conveying this letter to her to-night all would be well. Mary Parkinson would only be too glad to obey him, would only be too glad to fly into his arms. She had no one else in the world to depend upon but herself; her honor, her good name, her future happiness, were in his hands.

The letter finished, and placed in an envelope, at the head of which he wrote, "Read this immediately. R. H.," he looked through his wardrobe, and selected a suit of clothes which would in some measure disguise him. These he put on, and then enveloped himself in an ulster which would render the disguise more complete. Carrying the letter in his hand, he stole stealthily out of the house, locking the door of his bedroom, and taking the key with him. He had provided himself with a latchkey, so that he could leave and enter the house without attracting attention.

"Safe so far," he muttered, when he found himself in the dark street. When he was at a safe distance he hailed a cab, and was driven to the east of the City, within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's house. He was too cunning to drive nearer. Paying the cabman liberally, he strolled away with apparent carelessness. The next thing to be done was to convey the letter to Mary Parkinson without any one but themselves being the wiser. A difficult undertaking at such an hour; he was not even sure of the house in which Mary lived. It was necessary, therefore, he decided regretfully, to obtain the assistance of a stranger. He arrived at the street in which Mr. Parkinson lived, and he looked about him. A policeman passed him, but he dared not seek the aid of a public officer. The policeman being out of sight, fortune favored him. Wretched wayfarers who had no roof to cover them, and no money to pay for a bed, are not uncommon in these poor thoroughfares, and one approached him now and looked into his face. She was, alas! a young woman, scarcely twenty years of age. He accosted her without hesitation.

"Do you want to earn half a crown?" he asked.

She laughed hysterically, and held out her hand. He put sixpence into it, saying:

"The other two shillings if you can tell me what I want to know."

"Right you are," she said, recklessly; "fire away."

"Are you acquainted with this neighborhood?" he said.

"What game are you up to?" she cried.

"Never mind my game," he said, "but answer my questions. Do you know these streets?"

"Do I know 'em? Why, I was born in 'em!"

"In which one?"

"In this; and wish I hadn't been."

"Never mind that. You know the people who live in these houses, then?"

"Know 'em? By heart! And they know me--rather! Ask any of 'em what they think of Blooming Bess."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Make it worth my while."

"Will a crown be worth your while?"

"Depends."

"You shall have a crown, and if you hold your tongue, in a fortnight I'll come and find you and give you another crown. I suppose you'll be hereabouts."

"Unless I'm in jail, or dead! I don't much care which."

"It isn't much of a secret, only don't talk about it to any one. You know this street, you say, and everybody in it. Just walk along with me, and tell me who lives in the houses."

"That's a lot to make a fuss about," said the wretched girl, and walked past the houses in his company, and said, here lives such and such a one, here lives so-and-so, here's a dozen of 'em living together, and so on, and so on. Now and again, to put her off the scent, Mark Inglefield asked questions concerning strangers, as to their trade, families, and other particulars. At length she came to Mr. Parkinson's house, and said,

"Here lives old Parkinson."

"And who is he?"

"Oh, one of us," replied the girl.

"One of us!

"Leastways, no better than the others. No more is his gal. I'm as good as she is, any day."

"His daughter, do you mean?"

"Yes. Stuck up, she used to be. Not stuck up now, not a bit of it. That's her room on the first floor, with a light in it. Afraid to go to bed in the dark. A nice lot she is!"

Mark Inglefield, having ascertained what he wanted, marked the number of the house, and congratulated himself on the lighted candle. Then he walked to the end of the street, listening to the account the girl gave of the residents, and when he came to the end of it he handed her four-and-sixpence, and said that was all he wanted to know.

"You're a rum un," said the girl. She had enough to pay for a bit of supper and a miserable bed. Late as it was, she knew where to obtain them.

All was silent and dark as Mark Inglefield wended his way back to Mr. Parkinson's house. Making sure that he was alone, he stepped back and threw a small stone at the window. Mary Parkinson was awake, for he had but to throw another before the sash of the window was raised, and the girl looked out.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Hush!" said Mark Inglefield. "Read this."

He had the letter ready, with a stone attached to it, and he threw it skilfully almost into her hand. The girl retreated into her room, and Mark Inglefield waited. He had purposely disguised his voice, fearing that, in the excitement of recognizing it, Mary might have screamed out and alarmed the house. He had not long to wait. He heard the key being softly turned in the street door, and the next moment Mary Parkinson was by his side.

"Oh, Richard!" she cried; "is it you--is it you?"

"Yes," he said, hurriedly. "Don't make a fool of yourself. No, no, I don't mean that; I mean, speak low. You're a good girl; you've got your hat on; now, let us get out of this. You thought I was going to leave you in the lurch. See, now, how you were mistaken in me. I will explain all as we go. I couldn't help acting as I did. My whole future and yours, Mary, depended on it. But everything is right now, and you will not have any reason to complain of me again. It did look bad, I admit; but all your trouble is over now."

He was hurrying her away as he spoke, and already they were at some distance from her father's house.

"Oh, Richard, Richard, it is all so sudden!" sighed the girl. "I have been so unhappy--so unhappy!"

"Yes, yes," he said, interrupting her, having no desire to encourage her to talk, but you are happy now, and everything will be well. "You read my letter, didn't you? All that I wrote in it is true. Ah, here's a cab. Get in."

"Shall we never part again, Richard?" asked Mary, trembling so in the sudden happiness of this adventure that he had to support her into the cab.

"Never again, Mary, never again. Never mistrust me again."

"I won't, I won't!" said the girl, and burst into a fit of passionate weeping.

Mark Inglefield gave an instruction to the driver, and they rattled along at a great pace through the City.