between Mr. Ronald's finger and thumb. "Don't speak to me; pay the
bill, and bring me the change outside." When the boatman joined him, he
was reading a letter; walking to and fro, and speaking at intervals to
himself. "God help me, have I lost my senses? I don't know what to do
next." He referred to the letter again: "if you don't believe me, ask
Mrs. Turner, Number 1, Slains Row, Ramsgate." He put the letter back in
his pocket, and rallied suddenly. "Slains Row," he said, turning to the
boatman. "Take me there directly, and keep the change for yourself."

The boatman's gratitude was (apparently) beyond expression in words. He
slapped his pocket cheerfully, and that was all. Leading the way
inland, he went downhill, and uphill again--then turned aside towards
the eastern extremity of the town.

Farnaby, still following, with the woman behind him, stopped when the
boatman diverged towards the east, and looked up at the name of the
street. "I've got my instructions," he said; "I know where he's going.
Step out! We'll get there before him, by another way."

Mr. Ronald and his guide reached a row of poor little houses, with poor
little gardens in front of them and behind them. The back windows
looked out on downs and fields lying on either side of the road to
Broadstairs. It was a lost and lonely spot. The guide stopped, and put
a question with inquisitive respect. "What number, sir?" Mr. Ronald had
sufficiently recovered himself to keep his own counsel. "That will do,"
he said. "You can leave me." The boatman waited a moment. Mr. Ronald
looked at him. The boatman was slow to understand that his leadership
had gone from him. "You're sure you don't want me any more?" he said.
"Quite sure," Mr. Ronald answered. The man from Broadstairs
retired--with his salvage to comfort him.