Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Yet she never once thought of changing it. But not so much a pig as that man. " "I'm convinced of it," replied Shotbolt; "and it was on that very account I came here. Probably he will come around to-morrow and begin all over again.
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