The materials were procured, and, with a great effort, Lotty managed to arrange herself so as to be able to write. She covered four pages with a sad scrawl, closed the envelope, and was about to direct it, but paused.
“The bells have stopped,” she said, listening. “It’s half-past eleven. Put on your things, Ida.”
The child obeyed, wondering.
“Give me my purse out of the drawer. See, there’s a shilling. Now, say this after me: Mr. Abra’m Woodstock, Number—, St. John Street Road.”
Ida repeated the address.
“Now, listen, Ida. You put this letter in your pocket; you go down into the Mary'bone road; you ask for a ‘bus to the Angel. When you get to the Angel, you ask your way to Number—, St. John Street Road; it isn’t far off. Knock at the door, and ask if Mr. Abra’m Woodstock is in. If he is, say you want to see him, and then give him this letter,—into his own hands, and nobody else’s. If he isn’t in, ask when he will be, and, if it won’t be long, wait.”
