are you doing here? And who are you?" I asked, stepping
into the coach for the purpose of pulling the fellow out.

I was greeted by a soft laugh and this answer: "I am sitting here, and my
name is Betty Pickering."

"My God, Betty, you can't go with us," I exclaimed, making ready to help
her out of the coach.

But she put her hand over my mouth to silence me and whispered, "The men
on the box must not know me."

Betty pushed me backward out of the coach, came out herself and led me to
George, who, by that time, was halfway across the courtyard.

"Who are you?" cried George, surprised to see the little man beside me,
for Betty was in greatcoat, trousers, and boots.

"I am Betty, and Baron Ned says I shall not go with you."

"No, no, Betty," answered George. "See the snow, the sleet, and the
storm. It is freezing and the wind cuts like a knife. It would kill you
to go with us."

"Think a moment," she answered, whispering, so that her words might not
be overheard by the men on the box. "Mistress Jennings may need the help
of a woman, but in any case you shall not have the coach and horses if I
don't go."

"Does your father know?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, come on! We are wasting valuable time," answered Betty,
starting toward the coach.

George and I were helpless against Betty's will, so we said nothing more,
and she climbed into the coach, taking her former place at the left end
of the back seat. George followed, taking the middle place next to her,
and after giving the word to start, I followed George, taking the right
hand corner, thus leaving him between Betty and me, an arrangement that
did not at all please me. But my disappointment was short lived, for
hardly was I seated till Betty spoke in tones plainly showing that she
was pouting:--

"I want Baron Ned to sit by me."

George laughed, he and I changed places, and when I was settled beside
Betty, she caught my hand, giving it a saucy little squeeze, and fell
back in her corner with a sigh and a low gurgling laugh.

When we had climbed Gracious Street hill, we turned into Candlestick
Street and drove along at a brisk pace, George and I watching the houses
to note our progress.

After passing Temple Bar, the street being broader and the night very
dark, we could not distinguish the houses save when a light gleamed over
a front door now and then, and were not sure where we were until we saw
the flambeaux over Whitehall Gate scintillating through the fal