She decided in that confused glance of hers through the window that the
coach was nearing the extreme end of the Poultry. She recognised the
Poultry Compter with its grim entrance and wondered whether the coach
would go straight on to Cornhill and then turn northward towards
Finsbury Fields, or southward to London Bridge.

For the moment all she thought of was her destination, and when she was
able without attracting her companion's, attention again to peep out of
the window she saw the coach was at the foot of London Bridge. The
driver had been compelled to walk his horses, so narrow and so dark was
the passage way.

The nightbirds of London were on their rambles looking out for prey; the
bridge was thronged. The people for the most part were half drunk--they
were the scourings from the low taverns in the Southwark Mint. Lavinia
had been revolving a plan of escape, but to launch herself among an
unruly mob ready for any devilry might be worse than remaining where she
was. But in spite of all that she did not cease to think about her plan
and watched for an opportunity when the worst of the rabble should have
passed.

Suddenly the coach came to a standstill. Shouts and oaths--more of the
latter than the former--were heard, and Dorrimore after fretting and
fuming lowered the window on his side and put out his head.

"What the devil's hindering you?" he demanded angrily, of the coachman.

"That monstrously clumsy waggon; the stubborn knave of a waggoner has
gotten the middle of the road and there he sticks. He'll draw neither to