"I don't know," said he.

"The first thing we must do," said Emmy--and her voice sounded in her own
ears like someone else's--"is to get away from here. Zora will be down by
the first train after my absence is discovered. You quite see that Zora
mustn't find me, don't you?"

"Of course," said Septimus, blankly. Then he brightened. "You can go to an
hotel. A Temperance Hotel in Bloomsbury. Wiggleswick was telling me about
one the other day. A friend of his burgled it and got six years. A man
called Barkus."

"But what was the name of the hotel?"

"Ah! that I forget," said Septimus. "It had something to do with Sir Walter
Scott. Let me see. Lockhart--no, Lockhart's is a different place. It was
either the Bride of Lammermoor or--yes," he cried triumphantly, "it was the
Ravenswood, in Southampton Row."

Emmy rose. The switch off onto the trivial piece of paper had braced her
unstrung nerves for a final effort: that, and the terror of meeting Zora.

"You'll take me there. I'll just put some things together."

He opened the door for her to pass out. On the threshold she turned.

"I believe God sent you to Nunsmere Common last night."

She left him, and he went back to the fire and filled and lit his pipe. Her
words touched him. They also struck a chord of memory. His ever-wandering