Richard was pretty decided in his ways.  Hotel living would not suit him now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank’s chambers in the Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up paper, “Back in five minutes.”

With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour.  Then he went out, and obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.

Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong as ever.

“Keb, sir ­keb, sir,” said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the stand in Saint Clement’s Churchyard.

“No, my man ­no.”

“Better take ­why, I’m blest!”

The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.

“Don’t you remember me, sir ­axdent, sir ­op’site your club, sir ­me as knocked the lady down, sir?”

“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I remember you now.  Not hurt, was she?”

“On’y shook, sir.  But jump in, sir.  Let me drive yer, sir.  Here, I’ll take the portmanter.”

“No, no,” said Richard, “I don’t want to ride, I ­there, confound it, man, what are you about?”

“No, ’fence, sir ­I on’y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you was.  Odd, aint it, sir?  That there lady lives along o’ me, at my house, now ­lodges, you know ­’partments to let, furnished.”

“Apartments!” cried Richard, eagerly; “do you know of any apartments?”

“Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir.”

“No, no; I mean cheap lodgings.”

“What, for a gent like you, sir?” said Sam Jenkles.

“No, no ­I’m no gentleman,” said Richard, bitterly; “only a poor man.  I want cheap rooms.”

“Really, sir?” said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.

“Yes, really, my man.  Can you tell me of any?”

“You jump in, sir, and I’ll run you up home in no time.”

“But I ­”

“My missus knows everybody ’bout us as has rooms to let ­quiet lodgings, you know, sir; six bob a week style ­cheap.”

“No, no; give me your address, and I’ll walk.”

“No you don’t, sir, along o’ that portmanter.  Now, I do wonder at a gent like you being so obstinit.”

Richard still hesitated; but it was an opportunity not to be lost, and, before he had time to thoroughly make up his mind, Sam had hoisted the portmanteau on the roof, afterwards holding open the flap of the cab.

“It’s all right, sir; jump in, sir.  Ratty wants a run, and you can’t carry that there portmanter.”

“A bad beginning,” muttered Richard.

Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street, and up Chancery Lane.

“He’s a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?” said a voice; and Richard turned sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles’s happy-looking face grinning through the trap.  “He’s as fresh as a daisy.”

The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were coming, and Sam’s hands were needed at the reins, the more especially that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round and round, clay-mill fashion.  But this was got over, the rest of the journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands could make them.

“Why, this would do capitally,” said Richard, taken by the aspect of the place.

“Dessay it would, sir,” said Sam, grinning; “but our rooms is let.  But come in, sir, and see the missus ­she’ll pick you out somewheres nice and clean.  But, hallo! what’s up?”

Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam’s lips, and stepped forward to help.

For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the latter being overcome.

“Thank you ­a little faint ­went too far,” said Mrs Lane, as Richard ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter.  “Netta, darling, only a few yards farther.  Try, dear.”

“She has fainted,” said Richard.  “Here, let me carry her.”

Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam’s door.

“That’s right, sir, in there,” said Sam, eagerly ­“fust door on the left’s the parly.  Poor gal!”

This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden in ­finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and forehead.

“There,” said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman’s tenderness.  “You look weak and ill, my dear, and ­and ­I beg pardon,” he said, hesitating, as he met Mrs Lane’s gaze, “I think we have met before.”

Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.

“Of course,” said Richard, smiling.  “My friend here, who drove me up, told me you lodged with him.”

Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.

“If I can do anything, pray ask me,” said Richard, backing to the door, and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in with ­

“Oh, my dear, you’ve been overdoing it ­I beg your pardon, sir.”

“My fault, I think,” said Richard.

And with another glance at the great dark eyes following him, he backed into the passage ­this time upon Sam, who had carried in the portmanteau.

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” said Sam ­“our back room here’s on’y a kitchen; but we lets our parlour, as you see.  There,” he said, leading the way, “that’s my cheer, sir; and the wife ’ll come and talk to you dreckly, I dessay.  I must go back on to the rank.”

“One moment,” said Richard.

“There, sir, I don’t want paying for a bit of a job like this,” said Sam.  “Oh, well, if you will pay, I shall put that down to the lodgers’ nex’ ride.”

“They are your lodgers, then?”

“Yes, sir; and it all come out of that old Ratty when I knocked Mrs Lane over.”

“But the young lady?”

“Thanky, sir, for calling her so; that’s just what she is.”

“Is she an invalid?”

“Feard so, sir,” said Sam, in a hoarse whisper.  “I don’t like her looks at all.  But I can’t stop, sir; the missus ’ll be here, and I hope she’ll know of a place as suits.”

The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.

His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood curtseying and smoothing her apron.

“Is she better?” said Richard, anxiously.

“Yes, sir, she’s quite well again now,” said Mrs Jenkles.  “She’s weak, sir ­rather delicate health; and Sam ­that is my husband ­said you wanted apartments, sir.”

“And that you would be able to find me some,” said Richard, smiling.

“I don’t think we’ve anything good enough about here, sir, for a gentleman like you.”

“For a poor man like me, you mean.  Now look here, Mrs ­Mrs ­”

“Jenkles, sir.”

“Mrs Jenkles.  I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that is all.”

“Then there’s Mrs Fiddison, sir, nearly opposite.  Very clean and respectable.  Bedroom and sitting-room, where a young gentleman left only about a week ago.  He played a long brass thing, sir, at one of the theatres, and used to practise it at home; and that’s why he left.”

“That will do, I daresay,” exclaimed Richard, who, in the first blush of his determination, was stern as an ascetic, and would have said Yes to the lodgings if Mrs Jenkles had proposed a couple of neatly furnished cellars.

The result was that the cabman’s wife went over with him to Mrs Fiddison’s, and introduced him to that lady, who was dressed in sombre black, held a widow’s cap in her hand, and was evidently determined to keep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the little parlour into which she led the way.