n her possible fate. I saw no one in
society.

My time was now largely occupied with wandering about the streets of
London. I began by exploring the vicinity of the theatre, and day
after day used to thread the alleys and courts in that neighbourhood.
Then I took the eastern direction, and soon became familiar with the
most squalid haunts.

My method was to wander from street to street, looking at every
poorly-dressed girl I met. Often I was greeted with an impudent
laugh, that brought back the sickening mental pictures I have
mentioned; and often I was greeted with an angry toss of the head and
such an exclamation as, 'What d'ye take me for, staring like that?'

These peregrinations I used to carry far into the night, and thus, as
I perceived, got the character at my hotel of a wild young man. The
family solicitor wrote to me again and again for appointments which I
could not give him.

It had often occurred to me that in a case of this kind the police
ought to be of some assistance. One day I called at Scotland Yard,
saw an official, and asked his aid. He listened to my story
attentively, then said: 'Do you come from the missing party's
friends, sir?'

'I am her friend,' I answered--'her only friend.'

'I mean, of course, do you represent her father or mother, or any
near relative?'

'She is an orphan; she has no relatives,' I said.

He looked at me steadily and said: 'I am sorry, sir, that neither I
nor a magistrate could do anything to aid you.'

'You can do nothing to aid me?' I asked angrily.

'I can do nothing to aid you, sir, in identifying a young woman you
once heard sing in the streets of London, with a lady you saw once on
the top of Snowdon.'

As I was leaving the office, he said: 'One moment, sir. I don't see
how I can take up this case for you, but I may make a suggestion. I
have an idea that you would do well to pursue inquiries among the
Gypsies.'

'Gypsies!' I said with great heat, as I left the office. 'If you knew
how I had already "pursued inquiries" among the Gypsies, you would
understand how barren is your suggestion.'

Weeks passed in this way. My aunt's ill-health became rather serious:
my mother too was still very unwell. I afterwards learnt that her
illness was really the result of the dire conflict in her breast
between the old passion of pride and the new invader remorse. There
were, no doubt, many discussions between them concerning me. I could
see plainly enough they bot