"In St. Cow's Church, down yonder. Mass at seven o'clock, and he'll be
there in half an hour."

"It's there I'll be, thin," mumbles the woman; "and bad luck to it that
I didn't know before; whin I came to ax him for me schore, and might
have gone home widout a cint but for a good lad named EDDY who gave me a
sthamp.--The same EDDY, I'm thinkin', that I've heard him mutter about
in his shlape at my shebang in town, whin he came there on political
business."

After a start and a pause, Mr. CLEWS repeats his information concerning
the Ritualistic church, and then cautiously follows the woman as she
goes thither.

Unconscious of the remarkable female figure intently watching him from
under a corner of the gallery, and occasionally shaking a fist at him,
Mr. BUMSTEAD attends to the musical part of the service with as much
artistic accuracy as a hasty head-bath and a glass of soda-water are
capable of securing. The worshippers are too busy with risings,
kneelings, bowings, and miscellaneous devout gymnastics, to heed his
casual imperfections, and his headache makes him fiercely indifferent to
what any one else may think.

Coming out of the athletic edifice, Mr. CLEWS comes upon the woman
again, who seems excited.

"Well?" he says.

"Sure he saw me in time to shlip out of a back dure," she returns,
savagely; "but it's shtrait to his boording-house I'm going afther him,