The noise and glare outside almost overwhelmed May as she went tottering feebly on. She knew not which way to turn, and felt that her weary feet would not bear her much farther. She stopped and looked half-dazed around. And as she did so a lamplight fell on her white and haggard face, showing it plainly to a man who was just about to pass her when she paused. This was Ralph Webster, but he did not recognize her. This pale-faced, miserable looking woman, whose features somehow reminded him of the beautiful, blooming girl he had seen last night at his aunt’s house, however, interested him. He, too, stopped after he had passed her, and looked back. She was beckoning for a cab, and a moment later one drew up.

The driver bent forward and asked her where she wished to go. The woman Webster was watching hesitated, got slowly into the cab, and then he heard her voice. He started; it was the voice of May, and the words she uttered sounded strange and ominous to his ears.

“Take me to one of the bridges,” she said.

“Which one, miss?” inquired the driver.

Once more there was a pause before the answer came. Then again he heard May’s voice.

“Westminster,” she said, and in an instant—swift as a flash of lightning—it darted across Ralph Webster’s acute brain that this actually might be May Churchill; that she might have learned the secret of which he was but too sure!

He made a hasty step toward the cab, but as he did so it started. But Webster was not a man to hesitate with such a doubt on his mind. At once he, too, hailed a cab, and bade the driver follow the one before him at his utmost speed.

“To Westminster Bridge,” he called as he leaped in, “and do not lose sight of the cab before us.”

The driver nodded and the race began. It was easy enough at first, but in the more crowded parts it was very difficult. One hansom cab is so like the other that to keep one particular cab in view was no easy task. The driver, however, did his best, but, unhappily, a slight block stopped them for a minute or two. Webster sat burning with impatience, but there was nothing for it but to wait. At last they were off again, and at last, too, they came in sight of the bridge. Then when they reached it Webster sprang out of the cab, and flung half a sovereign to the driver.

“Wait for me here,” he said; “I may want you again.”

Then he went on along the footpath, and, halfway across the bridge, he saw another cab drawn up at one side of the roadway, and as he approached this cab the driver beckoned to a passing policeman, and for a moment Webster paused to listen to what he said.

“I say!” called the cabman, “there’s a lady just got out of this ‘ere cab that I think ye’d best look after. She looked uncommon queer, and she told me to drive to one of the bridges; I wish she may not be after some mischief or other.”

“Which way did she go?” asked the policeman, interested.

“Straight ahead, and she’d a wild, dazed look I didn’t like.”

Webster listened no longer. With swift steps he walked on, peering around him as he went. The bridge was fairly crowded, but he pushed his way, and in a little while he saw the figure of a woman before him; of a woman whose form reminded him of the slender girlish one of whom he was thinking. Some passer-by went roughly against her, and she reeled to one side, and leaned panting against the parapet of the bridge.

In an instant Webster was at her side.

“Did that man hurt you?” he asked, quickly.

Then the woman turned her head, and Webster saw the white, despairing face, and the large, violet-rimmed eyes.

“Are you Miss Churchill?” said Webster, in a low tone, and he laid his hand gently on her arm.

A cry broke from May’s white lips.

“Oh! don’t speak to me, Mr. Webster. Oh! leave me alone—please leave me alone!” she gasped out.

“I can not leave you alone,” answered Ralph Webster firmly; “I can not leave you here—”

At this moment the policeman the cabman had spoken to came up to them, and stopped and looked at May suspiciously.

“Is this the young woman the cabman was speaking of, sir?” he said, addressing Webster. “I saw you pass when he was telling me to look after her.”

“No,” said Webster, quietly; “this young lady is a friend of mine; and a man pushed against her, and she has turned rather faint. You had best take my arm,” he added, addressing May, and without any permission he drew her arm through his, and led her quietly on.

For a few moments May did not speak, nor did he. Then, with his voice full of feeling, he said:

“You have heard some bad news—I fear I know what it is.”

May’s whole form quivered.

“Oh! go away and leave me alone, Mr. Webster,” she once more prayed. “Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me—I only wish to be alone.”

“You are not fit to be alone,” answered Webster; “you have received a great mental shock, a shock that I have feared for days must come to you—you have learnt the truth, somehow, about Mr. Temple and Miss Kathleen Weir.”

May gave a sudden cry.

“How do you know?” she asked, in a broken voice. “What do you know?”

“Miss Weir told me—of her early marriage to Mr. Temple.”

“And you knew this and never told me!” cried May. “You let me live on in my—fool’s happiness—you let me—”

But here her voice broke; she covered her face with her hand; a moan broke from, her parched lips.

“I could not bear to disturb your happiness,” said Webster, gently. “I was distressed above measure when this strange knowledge came to me. I did not know how to act, and last night when I was at Pembridge Terrace—”

“I will never go there again!” broke in May, passionately. “I will never see anyone again that I have known. You must forget this meeting, Mr. Webster; you must never tell anyone that you have seen me. Will you promise me this?”

“Only on one condition—that you will try to bear this bitter blow with fortitude—otherwise it is my duty—”

“How can I bear it?” moaned the unhappy girl. “He—was everything to me—I believed he loved me—and now, and now—”

“There is no blame to be attached to you. It is a most painful and trying position, and I do not wonder at you shrinking back from it, yet I am sure that both my aunts—”

“Mr. Webster,” interrupted May, “do not speak of this. I will never see your aunts again—never! My father is going there to-morrow—do you think I could face him?”

“Pardon my asking you, but how do you know all this?”

“He—he came to-day,” answered May in broken accents; “he took me out—and told me. He—said our secret marriage was known—for we were married—”

“I know you were; Mr. Temple has rendered himself liable by his conduct—”

“To what?” asked May, quickly, as Webster paused.

“To an action for bigamy—”

“No!” said May, sharply and quickly, and for the first time she raised her bowed head. “I will do nothing against him; I will say nothing against him—I will disappear—and you must keep my secret.”

“I will do anything for you. Will you trust me?” answered Webster, earnestly. “I know at the present time you are overwhelmed with the suddenness of the blow, and no one can wonder at it. But how did you come to be out here alone?”

“He—Mr. Temple,” faltered May, “left me for a little time, he supposed, and went to your aunts. He—he did not wish me to leave him; he did not know I never meant to see him again.”

“And then you went out?”

“I went out never to return. I will never return! I will never return, Mr. Webster—I—I—have not strength—”

“My poor, poor girl,” said Webster, very pityingly.

“And now will you leave me, Mr. Webster?” went on May, who was trembling in every limb; “I—I am better now—good-by.”

“I will not leave you,” answered Webster, quietly and firmly. “I will stay with you until I see you in some safe shelter. I do not wonder at your decision not to return to Mr. Temple, and it is natural that just at first you should shrink from seeing those that you have known. But Fate has thrown me in your path, and it is my duty to watch over you. Turn with me now; I have a cab waiting at the other end of the bridge, and we can settle as we drive where you shall go.”

“Oh! I can not go, I can not go!” moaned May.

“You must,” said Webster; “do you think I would leave you alone in the miserable, desperate state you are in? I do not ask you to go back to Pembridge Terrace, or to see your father or Mr. Temple; all I ask you to do is to come with me, and I will take the best care of you that I can.”

“And—and you will tell no one where I am?”

“I solemnly promise I will tell no one where you are, if in return you will promise to do nothing rash. Miss Churchill, no man is worth it,” he added, half bitterly. “But come, now, let us go back to the cab.”

But by this time May’s trembling limbs had well-nigh failed her. She tottered on for a few minutes more, clinging to Webster’s arm for support, and then a deadly faintness suddenly overcame her, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Webster held her in his arms.

But when he saw her condition, he at once made up his mind. He called a passing cab; he lifted May in.

“Drive as direct as you can to St. Phillip’s Hospital,” he told the cabman.

At the great hospital which I here call St. Phillip’s Webster had suddenly remembered that he was a personal friend of the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood. He remembered also that private patients could find accommodation there, and that there were private rooms where May could be nursed and taken care of.

Until she had fainted he had not known where to take her. Now her illness settled the matter, and half an hour later May was borne into the great gloomy building, where the sick and suffering spent their weary hours. But first Webster had a short, whispered conversation with his friend the house surgeon.

“Remember, money is no consideration, Brentwood,” this conversation ended with; “but she must not be left alone; a nurse must never leave her.”

Doctor Brentwood nodded his head and went to look after his new patient. Webster had told him as much of May’s story as he deemed necessary, and the doctor quite understood.

“She is a woman in terrible grief,” Webster had said, “and she might do something desperate unless she is well looked after.”

Thus when May regained complete consciousness she found herself in a small, neat, clean room, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and a neat hospital nurse standing by her bedside. Doctor Brentwood was also in the room, and when May looked round and asked the nurse where she was, he too went up to the bedside.

“Well, you are better now, I see,” he said, cheerfully.

“Where am I?” asked May again. “I think I must have fainted.”

“You are in the private patients’ ward in St. Phillip’s Hospital. Yes, you fainted, but I hope you will soon be all right after you have had a night’s rest.”

May put her hand over her face; she was recalling her interview with Ralph Webster on the bridge.

“Who brought me here?” she asked, presently, in a low, pained tone.

“Mr. Webster—Ralph Webster; you are a friend of his, he tells me.”

For a moment or two May said nothing, and the doctor was turning away to give some directions to the nurse, when she once more addressed him:

“Can I see Mr. Webster?” she asked.

“Certainly, if you wish it. I will bring him to you at once,” replied Doctor Brentwood; and a few minutes later Webster was in the room.

He went up not unmoved to the bed on which May was lying, with her white face and her loosed hair.

“Doctor Brentwood says you are better, and that you wish to see me?” he said, in a low tone.

“Yes, I wish to see you alone for a few minutes,” answered May.

Webster looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the nurse, and then they both left the room.

“Mr. Webster,” began May, brokenly and agitatedly, “you have brought me here against my will—but will you promise me at least one thing?”

“I will promise you anything you wish.”

“Will you tell no one where I am; remember, no one?”

“I faithfully promise you I will not. You are in a safe refuge here, and no one shall come near you nor molest you unless you wish it.”

“I wish them to think me dead,” said May, in a low, emphatic voice; “I wish everyone to think me dead.”

“I will not betray your secret,” answered Webster, and he stretched out his hand and took hers. “Will you trust me?”

“Yes; and—and do not tell them my name here. You have not told them my name?”

“I have not; Doctor Brentwood is an old friend of mine, and I know you will be well looked after under his care. Try to sleep, and forget what has happened; and what name shall I call you by?”

“Oh, anything; it is no matter.”

Webster thought for a moment or two, and then he once more took May’s hand in his own.

“I will call you Mrs. Church,” he said; “that will do, and now good-night.”