in
into a shout, then failed him.

'No, I really can't,' said the other, decidedly, pulling himself away.
'You go and ask the door-keeper. Perhaps he'll know something.'

But the door-keeper knew only that he had been asked for 'Mr. Fison'
by two nice-spoken young ladies, that he had directed them where to
go, and had opened the stage-door for them. He hadn't happened to be
in his 'lodge' when they went out, and couldn't say in which direction
they had gone.

'Why, lor' bless you, sir, they come here in scores every week!'

Fenwick rushed out into the Strand, and walked from end to end of the
theatrical section of it several times, questioning the policemen on
duty. But he could discover nothing.

Then, blindly, he made his way down a narrow street to the Embankment.
There he threw himself on a bench, almost fainting, unable to stand.

What should he do? He was absolutely convinced that he had seen
Carrie--his child; his little Carrie!--his own flesh and blood. It was
her face--her eyes--her movement--changed, indeed, but perfectly to
be recognised by him, her father. And by the cruel, the monstrous
accidents of the meeting, she had been swept away from him again into
this whirlpool of London, before he had had the smallest chance of
grasping at the little form as it floated past him on this aimless
stream of things. His whole nature was in surging revolt against
life--against men's senseless theories of God and Providence. If it
should prove that he had lost all clue again to his wife and child,
he would put an end, once for all, to his share in the business--he
swore, with clenched hands, that he would. The Great Potter had made
sport of him long enough; it was time to break the cup and toss its
fragments back into the vast common heap of ruined and wasted things.
'Some to honour--and some to dishonour'--the words rang in his ears,
mingling with that deep bell of St. Paul's, whereof the echoes were
being carried up the river towards him on the light southeasterly
wind.

But first--he tried to make his mind follow out the natural
implications and consequences of what had happened. Carrie had asked
his name. But clearly, when it was given her, it had meant nothing
to her. She could not have left her father there--knowing it was her
father--without a word. No; Phoebe's first step, of course, would have
been to drop her old name, and the child would have no knowledge of
it.

But Phoebe? If Carrie was in England