White's

Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled
the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy
old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Inside was Anna, leaning
a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the
brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth--the desire to understand
and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. She was
practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her
future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. She
watched the people and hummed softly to herself.

Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window.

"Please stop, cabman," she ordered.

The man pulled up. It was not a difficult affair.

"Is this Montague Street, W.C.?" she asked.

The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could
not.

"Stay where you are for a moment," she directed. "I want to find an
address."

The man contented himself with a nod. Anna rummaged about in her
dressing-case, and finally drew out a letter. On the envelope was
written-Sydney Courtlaw, Esq.,
13, Montague St.

She put her head out of the window.

"Number 13, please, cabman."

"We've come past it, miss," the man answered, with a note of finality
in his gruff voice.

"Then turn round and go back there," she directed.

The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. His
horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where
he was. After a certain amount of manoeuvring, however, he was
induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again
before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of
colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. This was number
13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as
"White's."