The sudden apparition of Shorty at once dismayed and disheartened Miriam. It seemed as if she were never to shake off the past—never to be allowed entirely to emerge from out the mire into which she had sunk through no fault of her own. If Mrs. Darrow were to see her in confidential discourse with this Arab of the gutter, Heaven only knew what would be the result. With apprehension she glanced swiftly up and down the road. But no one was in sight. Then quietly she glided to the lee-side of a cottage, where she was sheltered both from sight and from the wind. Shorty followed her with rat-like activity, and snuggled in his rags against her skirts. The night was closing in around them, and she shuddered and shrank back from the contact of this obscene creature who had crawled out of the darkness, as it were, across her path. The urchin gazed at her admiringly.

"My eye, y'are a stunner, y'are," he croaked, hugging himself; "wot 'ud old Mother Mandarin say t' ye now?"

"Hush!" Miriam glanced round again. "Nonsense, Shorty; someone might hear! What do you want—money?"

"I cud do with a bit. Travellin' fust clarse fro' London costs a 'eap; an' m' close ain't wot they shuld be fur wisitin'."

With a hasty gesture Miriam drew away her skirts, and producing two half-crowns handed them to the boy.

"This will get you food," she said hurriedly. "I can't give you any more. I am little better off than you are."

Shorty clinked the coins together, and whistled shrilly—much to Miriam's dismay. But the wind was so loud that the sound was drowned in the sweeping of the blast.

"How did you find me out?" she asked.

"Jabez knew. Y' sent him twenty quid fro' Craven Street, didn't y'?"

"Yes, but I didn't tell him where I was going."

Shorty hugged himself again and uttered a dignified screech.

"I foun' yer out, I did. Jabez 'e sent me t' the 'otel as y' guv the name on the letter y' sent the quid with, an' I went there, an' sawr the ole cove as Jabez tried to scrag."

"But how did you find out? Did Mr.—did he tell you?"

"Ho yes! 'e tole me, leastways 'e tole Mother Mandarin, an' she tole me, an' I tole Jabez; an' 'e sez, 'you jes' go down,' 'e sez, 'an' say to Miriam as I wants to 'ave a word with 'er, I does,' an' I sez, 'right y'are,' an' I pass off down 'ere, I does, and sleep in barns an' 'aystacks, an' dodges the bloomin' peelers. An' I gits 'ere to-day, an' I sees you a talkin' to that skinny laidy; an' wot does she do but ketches me a clout on the 'ead an' arsks questions; but she didn't fin' out nothink fro' me, no, blarst 'er!—not a bloomin' word, an' I clears out arter you, an' 'ere I am;" and Shorty, having exhausted his stock of breath for the time being, executed a shuffle by way of keeping himself warm.

The cold would have killed a delicately nurtured child, but Shorty, like the man in the Greek story, was "all face," and the cold affected his hardened carcase but little. He shuffled and slapped his hands, and leered at Miriam until her very soul was sick within her. What had she done to be thus visited by this horrible reminder of the past?

"Did Mr.—did the old gentleman tell Mother Mandarin I was with him?"

"Ho yes, 'e tole 'er. Mother Mandarin's fly, she is, an' there ain't much she wants to know as she don't git t' know."

Miriam started, and, seizing the boy by the arm, looked at him searchingly.

"Does the old gentleman——?" but Shorty interrupted her with a grin.

"Yes, that's it. Ho, 'e's a bad 'un, 'e is. As wicked a ole cuss as ever wos. 'Satan,' Mother Mandarin calls 'im, an' Satan 'e is."

"Does he often go to Mother Mandarin?"

"'E goes there a lot, 'e does. But look 'ere," continued Shorty crossly, "I can't staiy torkin' 'ere all night, I'm orf to git grub. 'Twas Jabez sent me 'ere, it wos."

"What does Jabez want?" Miriam had a premonition of ill.

"T' see y' an' 'ave a jaw, didn't I te' y' so?"

"I can't see him. I daren't leave here, Shorty."

"There ain't no ned. Jabez is a-comin' 'ere."

"Shorty!" Miriam seized hold of the boy again, and looked at him. He glanced at her and wriggled free with a yelp.

"Don't look at me like that; I ain't done nothink."

"He can't come here," said Miriam hurriedly. "Tell him he must not—he dare not. If he leaves London, he is lost!"

"I don't know; I don't know a bloomin' thing about it," said Shorty sullenly. "All I knows is as 'e said 'e wos a-comin' 'ere next week. Goin' to keep 'is 'oliday in the country. An' I don't want no more lip, Miriam, d' y' 'ear? If you'd let Jabez scrag that ole Satan, 'twould 'ave been best for 'im Jabez sez ye're t' meet 'im outside the church 'ere next Friday."

"What! has he been here before then—that is, since I came here?"

"I don't know. That's all 'e sez, an' all I knows. I'm orf for grub I tell yer."

"Shorty!" Miriam detained the boy. "I have always been kind to you."

"Ho yes—you're a good 'un as ever wos."

"Then don't speak of me to anyone about here. Don't say you've seen me; mind, Shorty, not a word."

"I'm fly." Shorty spun a coin like some horrible imp of darkness.

Miriam leaned against the wall of the cottage. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep up—she felt giddy and faint. Though on all sides she was environed with perils, it would never do to give way now. She would have to meet Jabez, yes, and fight him—otherwise he would betray her, and she would sink back again into the horrible life which she hoped she had left for ever. It was with a heavy heart and tread that she regained the road, and began to make her way home.

She walked along, a lonely figure on the lonely road—for the evening was so cold that the labourers and their wives were not inclined to loiter out of doors. More than once she had half a mind to turn back to the Vicarage, and tell the whole truth to Mrs. Parsley. She seemed kindly disposed to her—indeed fond of her; perhaps she would help her. But then, again, Mrs. Parsley was at best a hard woman, reared upon relentless dogma of the Old Testament. It was quite possible she might spurn her when she came to hear her story. Miriam had never confessed the whole truth, not even to Mr. Barton, although, in her early weak moments she had said enough to enable him to trace the rest through the strange creature he had called the Shadow. And though Barton knew all, he still remained her friend. But after what she had learned from Shorty concerning Mother Mandarin's connection with the Squire, she felt she could no longer trust him. It might be best to risk confiding in Mrs. Parsley, who was above suspicion, and possessed of much social power. She could not make up her mind. What was best? What was right? She paused, hesitated, and looked up for guidance to the windy sky. The stars were there, and the moon, across whose face the flying clouds were driving in the sweeping east wind; but there was no guidance, no hint of what course she should take. Thrown back on herself, Miriam wavered and was lost. She walked on and on and on; but she did not go back to Mrs. Parsley. Alas! had she but turned back on that fatal night how different would her future have been! She had come to the cross-roads, although she knew it not; and she had taken the wrong one. Henceforth her path was difficult, tortuous, and weary.

As, battling with her conflicting thoughts, Miriam pressed on to Pine Cottage in the face of the wind—which seemed as if it would drive her back to the Vicarage and Mrs. Parsley—a shadow, as it seemed, emerged from out the other shadows and came towards her. Then she saw that it was human—a tall, gaunt figure, clothed in black. Instantly and instinctively she knew this was the strange person whom Barton called the Shadow. Her nerves were so shaken by her late interview, that at this unexpected encounter she could not withhold a sharp cry.

"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" she panted.

Then for the first time she heard his voice, deep, sad, and thrilling—a voice that once had been beautiful, but had been robbed of half its beauty.

"Who I am does not matter," he said slowly. "What I want you shall know."

"Tell me," said Miriam, recovering from her first alarm.

"Know then that I overheard you and that lad. But you need not fear. Your secret lies safe in my keeping. I know you, and I know of you."

"Was it you who found out all about Jabez?"

"It was I, and it is of Jabez I would speak with you. He comes here soon to see you."

"So Shorty says."

"Then warn him while there is yet time that he does not come, for there is danger."

"From whom?" asked Miriam with a white face.

"From him who lives in yonder Manor—he threatens to arrest Jabez."

Miriam drew closer to him, and laid her hand upon his arm. It was in a frightened whisper she spoke.

"For what—for that?"

"Yes, indeed; for that. He knows all, and will surely use his knowledge."

"He dare not do that," and Miriam twisted her hands together as if in pain. "He will not—not while I obey him."

"Put not your hope in such false reasoning, child. He is a man relentless and of devilish persistency."

"But why should he seek to harm Jabez?"

"I know not. He gives no reason. But he threatens. Be warned, and if you would save your Jabez, act while there is time. Farewell."

"No, no; tell me who you are, and what you know of Mr. Barton."

"What do I know of Barton?" The man laughed fiercely. There was that in his laugh which caused Miriam to shiver. "What do I know of him?—more, child, than I dare reveal—more than, for my own sake, I dare to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because he holds me in the hollow of his hand. I am a nameless man, and must ever be his slave. In warning you this night even I have run great risk. But I would save any soul from such a fate as mine."

"Oh!" Miriam shrank back. "Are you like Jabez?"

The nameless man looked at her through the darkness, and it seemed to Miriam as though his eyes were luminous. Peering into his face she saw stamped upon it a look of abject misery; the look of a soul damned past redemption—past all hope. For a moment they looked at one another, then the man stole quietly away—melted, as it were, into the surrounding blackness. Miriam made no attempt to stay him. She read in his eyes the look that she had read in Jabez', and knew what he was, and why he obeyed Barton. For quite a moment after he had left her she stood still, clutching at her heart as though there lurked a cruel pain. Then with a sigh she turned homeward—to the only home she knew.

Before she had taken many steps the rain began to fall in torrents, and in a few minutes the High Street of Lesser Thorpe was flooded with water. A furious wind, wailing and angry, drove the slanting spears of rain against her form, and she splashed ankle-deep through the water, so quickly had the flood risen. But Miriam did not care. There was that in her heart which made her callous to her surroundings—impervious utterly to any physical inconvenience. When she arrived at Pine Cottage, Mrs. Darrow, having heard the gate clash, herself came to the door. She was aghast at the change in her governess.

"Good Heavens, Miss Crane, what is the matter?"

"Nothing," replied Miriam tartly. "What should be the matter? I have just come from the Vicarage, and have been caught in the storm—that's all."

But Mrs. Darrow did not think that was "all." She was convinced something serious was the matter. But as all her inquiries, direct or indirect, proved fruitless, she was forced to return to the drawing-room with her curiosity only the more keen because unsatisfied. Miriam ran up to her room, and locking the door, sat down to write a letter. It was a letter of but one page, but it contained the substance of the Shadow's advice to Jabez that he should remain in London. She directed it to him, care of Mother Mandarin, 20, Sago Lane, Lambeth; and having stamped and sealed it, was about to take it to the post. With her hand upon the key of the door she paused. Then she sat down and thought.

It came upon her overwhelmingly that no longer could she bear her burden alone. She felt she must confide in somebody—must have the sympathy of some friendly soul. Again her thoughts turned to Mrs. Parsley. She was inclined to go and tell her everything as she had been before. Together Barton and this nameless spy were working for the end of Jabez. She felt convinced of it. Anything to save him from that—and indeed she herself must suffer with him. His downfall was hers too, and then——Yes, she would go.

She unlocked the door, and with the letter under her cloak ran downstairs. In the hall she was confronted by Mrs. Darrow. There was an angry glitter in the widow's eye.

"Where are you going, Miss Crane?"

"To post a letter."

"Cannot the servant post it?"

"No," replied Miriam curtly, and left the house.

Mrs. Darrow peered after her.

"She goes out in this fearful rain to post a letter—herself," she thought. "More mystery! I won't stand it any longer. Dicky or no Dicky—money or no money—she goes this day month!"

When Miriam returned Mrs. Darrow gave her notice.