CHAPTER X.
BETWEEN 13 AND 14, ROSEMARY STREET.
A church clock struck as we rolled along.
"That sounds like nine—a quarter-past eleven. What shall you do if we can't get in at all?"
"Not get into my own house? My dear, this is not a case of Cardew and Slaughter's. What is going to keep me out of my own house—if I choose to enter it with the milk!—I should like to know."
I did not know. I could not even guess. But all the same I had a sort of feeling that someone could—and might. "My own house" came glibly from her tongue. That morning there had been ten shillings between her and the workhouse; already she had become quite the woman of established means. I might have been the same had the case been mine. You never know. It must be so nice to have something of your very own.
We were nearing the Westminster Bridge Road. Again the driver spoke to us from above; he had hardly slackened pace the whole of the way.
"Coast clear, miss; not had a sight of the party since we lost him. Where shall I put you down?"
"I'll stop you in a minute; keep on to the left." Pollie spoke to me. "What did it say in the letter was the name of the street in which is the entrance to the back door?"
"Rosemary Street."
