which I never thought of asking), and was told that the coach never went
any further.

No post-chaise was to be had. With incredible difficulty I got first a
gig, then a man to drive it; and, last, a pony to draw it. We hobbled
away crazily from the inn door. I thought of Screw and the Bow Street
runner approaching Crickgelly, from their point of the compass, perhaps
at the full speed of a good post-chaise--I thought of that, and would
have given all the money in my pocket for two hours' use of a fast
road-hack.

Judging by the time we occupied in making the journey, and a little also
by my own impatience, I should say that Crickgelly must have been at
least twenty miles distant from the town where I took the gig. The sun
was setting, when we first heard, through the evening stillness, the
sound of the surf on the seashore. The twilight was falling as we
entered the little fishing village, and let our unfortunate pony stop,
for the last time, at a small inn door.

The first question I asked of the landlord was, whether two gentlemen
(friends of mine, of course, whom I expected to meet) had driven into
Crickgelly, a little while before me. The reply was in the negative;
and the sense of relief it produced seemed to rest me at once, body and
mind, after my long and anxious journey. Either I had beaten the spies
on the road, or they were not bound to Crickgelly. Any way, I had first
possession of the field of action. I paid the man who had driven me, and
asked my way to Zion Place. My directions were simple--I had only to go
through the village, and I should find Zion Place at the other end of
it.

The village had a very strong smell, and a curious habit of building
boats in the street between intervals of detached cottages; a helpless,
muddy, fishy little place. I walked through it rapidly; turned inland
a few hundred yards; ascended some rising ground; and discerned, in the
dim twilight, four small lonesome villas standing in pairs, with a shed
and a saw-pit on one side, and a few shells of unfinished houses on
the other. Some madly speculative builder was evidently trying to turn
Crickgelly into a watering-place.

I made out Number Two, and discovered the bell-handle with difficulty,
it was growing so dark. A servant-maid--corporeally enormous; but, as I
soon found, in a totally undeveloped state, mentally--opened the door.

"Does Miss Giles live here?" I asked.

"Don't see no visitors," answered the large maide