The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. "See her I will.
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