"I thank you. My gratitude will remain ever as a debt. I appreciate your delicacy in not intruding upon my interview with my friend."
"She is not a new friend," observed our Reporter.
"It seems to me that she might have appeared at the police-court to give evidence in your favour."
"Supposing she could say anything _in_ my favour."
"It is evident that she would say nothing to harm you. Her joy at meeting you was too palpable."
"You have a trick of keen observation. Perhaps she did not know of my awkward position."
"How could she help knowing it when your name has been so prominent in the papers for weeks?"
"My name? Ah, I forgot. But I cannot offer you a satisfactory explanation. More than ever now will unnecessary and immediate publicity be likely to injure me. You will keep your promise--for three days you will not write about me?"
"I will keep my promise. At the end of three days I shall simply publish what has passed between ourselves and Mr. Goldberry."
"It seems to me to be singularly devoid of interest."
"You are mistaken. Newspaper readers peruse such details as these with eagerness. You must not forget that you are in some way, near or remote, connected with an atrocious crime."
"Good-day!" exclaimed our Reporter. "Shall I not see you again?"
"I shall not do that. But you promised to afford me an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with you."
He rejoined the woman, and after exchanging a few words with her, returned to our Reporter.
"You will not publish the address I am about to give you?"
"I do not wish it. We must not play with reputations--especially with the reputation of a woman. Have you pencil and paper? Thank you. Call to-night at ten o'clock at this address."
He wrote an address in our Reporter's note-book, and, directly afterwards, left Leicester Square with his newly-found friend. As he turned in the direction of Piccadilly, he hailed a cab, into which he and his companion hastily scrambled.
By ten o'clock that night our Reporter paused before the door of the house in which he expected to find Antony Cowlrick, and debated with himself whether he should inquire for the man by name. It was quite natural, he thought, that a person who had been placed in a position so unpleasant as Antony Cowlrick should wish to avoid the disagreeable curiosity of prying eyes and vulgar tongues, and that in a new lodging he should give another name than his own. The house was situated in one of the lowest neighbourhoods, where only the poorest people dwell. There were at least half-a-dozen small bells on the right hand side of the door, and our Reporter fell into deep disgrace by pulling them one after another, and bringing down persons whose faces were strange to him.