The wretched girl did not come alone. A woman dragged her forward.

"Here you are, Mr. Parkinson," said the woman. "Blooming Bess can tell you something about Mary's disappearance last night."

"I am ruined," thought Mark Inglefield, and hoped that Blooming Bess would not recognize him. There were chances in his favor. It was night when they met, and he had taken the precaution to change his clothes and wrap himself in an ulster. To these chances he was compelled to trust; and perhaps he could keep himself out of the girl's sight.

"What do you know about it?" asked Mr. Parkinson, in great excitement.

"Oh, I don't mind telling," said the girl. "Here, you! Just let go of me, will you?"

She released herself from the woman's grasp.

"Do you want the lot," she asked of Mr. Parkinson, "from beginning to end?"

"I must know everything," he replied, "everything."

"You must, must you? Well, that's for me to say, not you. I could tell you a lot of lies if I wanted to."

He made a threatening motion towards her, but was held back by his mates. "You'll only make things worse," they said.

"A precious sight worse," said Blooming Bess, with a reckless laugh. "Oh, let him get at me if he likes! Who cares? I don't. But I'll tell him what he wants, never fear. She's a respectable one, she is! When I went to the bad, passed me by as if I was so much dirt. Wouldn't look at me--wouldn't speak to me; holding her frock like this, for fear I should touch it. And now what is she, I'd like to know? Better than me--or worse?"

Mr. Parkinson groaned.

"Groan away; much good it'll do you. It won't bring her back; and if it did, who'd look at her? Not me. She's come down, with all her stuck-up pride. I'm as good as her, any day of the week!"

"Come, come, Bess," said a man in the crowd, "you're not a bad sort; let us have the truth, like a good girl."

"Oh, yes, I'm a real good un now you want to get something out of me! But never mind; here goes. It was in the middle of the night, and I didn't have a brass farthing in my pockets. They turned me out because I couldn't pay for my bed. It wasn't the first time, and won't be the last. So out I goes, and here I am in the middle of this very street, when a swell comes up to me, and says, says he, 'Do you want to earn half a bull?' I laughs, and holds out my hand, and he puts sixpence in it, and says, says he, 'The other two bob when you tell me what I want to know.'"

"Are you making this up out of your head, Bess?"

"Not me! not clever enough. Never was one of the clever ones, or I'd be a jolly sight better off. Then the swell asks me if I can tell him the names of the people that lives in the street, and plump upon that asks me if I can keep a secret. I thought he was kidding me, I give you my word, and I says, 'Make it worth my while.' With that he promises me five bob, and I walks with him, or he walks with me--it don't matter which, does it?--from one end of the street to the other, and I tell him everybody that lives in it. 'Who lives here?' says he, and 'Who lives here?' says he; and thinks I, this is a rum game; wonder what he's up to! But it ain't my business, is it? My business is to earn five bob, and earn it easy; and when I have told him all he wanted, he gives me four bob and a bender, and sends me off. What can you make of all that?"

"Not much," said the man who had taken her in hand. Mr. Parkinson could not trust himself to speak, and Mark Inglefield did not dare. "What time was it when this occurred?"

"By my gold watch," replied the girl, "with a fine sarcasm, it was half-past the middle of the night. Perhaps a minute or two more. I like to be particular."

"And that is all you know? You can't tell us anything more?"

"Oh, I didn't say that, did I? All? Not a bit of it. Why, the cream's to come. It's only skim-milk you've got as yet."

"Let's hear the end of it, Bess," said the man, coaxingly.

"That's the way to speak to me. Be soft, and you can do what you like with me; be hard, and to save your life I wouldn't speak a word. The end of it was this. The swell had done with me, and thought I had done with him. Never more mistaken in his life. I was born curious, I was; so thinks I to myself, 'I'm blowed if I don't see what he's up to;' and when I turned the corner of the street and he thought I was gone for good, I come back, and there I was, you know, standing in the dark, out of sight. He walks back to the middle of the street, and stops right before this house, and looks up at Mary's--I beg your pardon, at Miss Parkinson's window. There's a light burning there, you know. He's got a letter in his hand, and what does he do but pick up a stone and tie them together. Then he picks up another stone, and throws it at Mary's window, and it opens and she looks out. I'm too far off to hear what they say to each other; but I suppose he says, 'Catch,' as he throws the letter up, and catch she does. And would you believe it? A little while afterwards down she comes and takes his arm as natural as life, and off they go together. I follow at a distance; I didn't want my neck twisted, and he looked the sort of cove that wouldn't mind doing it, so I keep at a safe distance, till he calls a growler, and in they get and drive away. And that's the end of it."

"It's a true story," said Mr. Parkinson. "When I went into her bedroom this morning, her window was open."

Those who had heard it gathered into groups, and discussed its various points; some suggesting that it looked as if the police were mixed up in it; others favoring Mark Inglefield's view that Mary Parkinson's statements to her father were false, from first to last. Meanwhile Mark Inglefield and Mr. Manners were left to themselves, the younger man congratulating himself that he had escaped being seen by Blooming Bess. His great anxiety now was to get away as quickly as possible, and, at the risk of offending Mr. Manners, he would have chosen the lesser evil, and have made an excuse for leaving him, had it not been that he was prevented by Blooming Bess, whose aimless footsteps had led her straight to Mark Inglefield, before whom she now stood. She gazed at him, and he at her. Her look was bold, saucy, reckless; his was apprehensive; but knowing, if she exposed him, that there was no alternative for him but to brazen it out, he did not decline the challenge expressed in her eyes. She said nothing, however, but slightly turned her head and laughed. As she turned she was accosted by Mr. Parkinson, who had joined this group.

"Did you see the man?" asked Mr. Parkinson.

"Did I see him?" she exclaimed. "Yes; though it was the middle of the night, and dark, I saw him as plain as I see you. Why, I could pick him out among a thousand."

But to Mark Inglefield's infinite relief she made no movement towards him; she merely looked at him again and laughed.

"Describe him," said Mr. Parkinson, roughly. "It may be a laughing matter to you, but it is not to us."

"To us!" retorted the girl. "What have these gentlemen got to do with it?"

"We are interested in it," said Mr. Manners.

"Oh, are you? And are you interested in it too, sir?" she asked, addressing Mark Inglefield.

"I am," he replied, finding himself compelled to speak.

"That's funny. You're the sort of gentleman, I should say, that would pay well for anything that was done for him."

"I am," said Mark Inglefield, growing bold; her words seemed to indicate a desire to establish a freemasonry between them, of which neither Mr. Parkinson nor Mr. Manners could have any suspicion.

"That's a good thing to know," said Blooming Bess, "because, you see, I should be an important witness--shouldn't I?"

"Very important," said Mr. Manners, "and I would pay well also."

"You would, would you, sir?" She looked from one man to the other.

"Allow me to manage this, sir," said Mark Inglefield. "It is more to my interest than yours."

Mr. Manners nodded acquiescence.

"I asked you to describe the man," said Mr. Parkinson.

"I can do that. He was short and fat, and his face was covered with hair. Oh, I can spot him the minute I see him."

Mark Inglefield gave the girl a smile of encouragement and approval. The description she had given could not possibly apply to him. Every fresh danger that threatened vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

"There seems to be nothing more to stop for, sir," he said to Mr. Manners; "with respect to this man's daughter, we have learned all that we are likely to hear. It occurs to me that you might prefer to carry out the second portion of your visit to this neighborhood alone."

"You refer to my son," said Mr. Manners.

"Yes; and I might be an encumbrance. Whether justly or not--out of consideration for you I will not enter into that question--your son and his wife would not look upon me with favor if they were to see me suddenly; and the circumstance of my being in your company might be misconstrued. I am willing, sir, that the past should be buried; your simple wish that your son and I should become friends again is sufficient for me. I will obey you, but a meeting between us should be led up to; it will be more agreeable to both of us. Do you not think so?"

"You are doubtless right, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "I appreciate your delicate thoughtfulness."

"Thank you, sir. There is another reason why I should leave you now. The story that girl has told may be true or false. You must not mind my expressing suspicion of everything in connection with Mr. Parkinson's daughter. It is even possible that she and that girl may be in collusion for some purpose of their own, and that they have concocted what we have heard. I have cleared myself, I hope."

"It would be unjust to deny it," said Mr. Manners.

"But I shall not allow the matter to end here," said Mark Inglefield, warmly. "I shall put it at once in the hands of a detective, who will, I dare say, be able to ascertain how far we have been imposed upon. The sooner the inquiry is opened up the stronger will be our chances of arriving at the truth. Do you approve of what I propose?"

"It is the right course," said Mr. Manners. "I was about to propose it myself."

"I will go then at once. In simple justice to me, sir, if you see Mr. Hollingworth, you should tell him how cruelly I have been suspected."

"You shall be set right in his eyes, Inglefield. If I can find time to-day, I will make a point of paying him a visit."

"My mind is greatly relieved, sir. Good-morning."'

"Good-morning, Inglefield."

Mark Inglefield, without addressing a word to Mr. Parkinson, went his way. The conversation between him and Mr. Manners had been quite private. Before he left the street he looked to see if Blooming Bess was still there, but she had disappeared.

He did not proceed to the office of any detective. Slowly, and in deep thought, he walked towards the Mansion House; the crowds of people hurrying apparently all ways at once disturbed him and annoyed him; it was impossible to think calmly in the midst of such noise and bustle. If ever there was a time in his life when he needed quiet and repose to think out the schemes which were stirring in his cunning mind, that time was now. The danger was averted for a while, but he could not yet regard himself as safe. He had to reckon with Blooming Bess.

That she had recognized him was certain--as certain as that she had played into his hands, and put his enemies off the scent.

"I wonder," he thought, "that she did not ask my name and address. What a misfortune that she should have presented herself when I was in the street!"

He was not aware that the girl of whom he was thinking was following him stealthily, and had never for a moment lost sight of him.

He turned to the left, and reached the Embankment. It was quieter there. Blooming Bess followed him. There were few people about, and he strolled leisurely along, looking at the river. The principle of evil was strong within him. He belonged to that class of men who will hesitate at nothing that can be done with safety to protect themselves. He was not bold enough for deeds of violence; his nature was sufficiently ruthless, and he was not troubled with qualms of conscience; but his first consideration had ever been to keep himself on the safe side. In his methods he was sly, cunning, deceitful, treacherous; but physically he was a coward. He had, however, the greatest confidence in his resources. "I shall beat them all yet," he thought; and thought, too, what a stroke of fortune it would be if sudden death were to overtake those who stood in his path. He had passed Waterloo Bridge when he felt a touch upon his arm. He looked down and saw Blooming Bess.

"Oh," he said, with no outward show of displeasure.

"Yes," she said, with a smile.

To strangers this simple interchange of greeting would have been enigmatical, but these two understood each other, though socially he stood so high and she so low.

"Have you been following me?" he asked.

"Of course I have," she replied. "Too good to miss. I'm in luck. I say, you are a gentleman, ain't you--a real swell?"

"I am a gentleman, I hope," he said, with perfect sincerity.

"I hope so too. You've got plenty of tin?"

"Very little."

"All right. I'll go off to the other one."

He caught her arm.

"Don't be a fool!"

"That's just what I ain't going to be. Well, you're a nice one, you are! Not even a thankee for standing by you as I did."

"You will not be content with thanks," he said, gloomily.

"Not likely. Want something more solid. Now, didn't I stand by you like a brick? Just one word from Blooming Bess, and your whole box of tricks would have been upset. But I didn't let on, by so much as a wink. We took 'em in nicely between us, didn't we? 'You're the sort of gentleman,' says I, 'that would pay well for anything that was done for him.' 'I am,' says you. I say, if they'd guessed the game we were playing there'd have been a rumpus. I want to know your name, and where you live."

"You don't," he retorted. "You want money."

"I want that, too; but I want your name and address, and I mean to have it. I won't use it against you so long as you square me."

She spoke with so much determination that he gave her what she demanded.

"Mr. Parkinson knows the other one," she said; "and if I don't find you at home when I want, I'll find him. Have you got a sovereign about you?"

Surprised at the moderateness of the request, he gave her a sovereign.

"How's Mary?" she asked.

The question suggested to him a plan which offered greater safety than allowing her to go away with money, and perhaps drinking herself into dangerous loquacity.

"Would you like to see her?" he asked.

"I wouldn't mind," she replied.

"Come along with me, then," he said. "I'll take you to her."