tly we draw up before a great, grey house. There is a lamp, at the foot of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reaching with a taper to light it. The glass of its shade is cracked. The street is perfectly silent.
''What''s this?'' I say to the woman, when the coach has stopped and I understand it will not go on.
''Here''s your house,'' she says.
''The hotel?''
''Hotel?'' She smiles. ''You may call it that.'' She reaches for the latch on the door. I put my hand on her wrist.
''Wait,'' I say—feeling real fear now, at last. ''What do you mean? Where has Mr Hawtrey directed you to?''
''Why, to here!''
''And what is here?''
''It''s a house, ain''t it? What is it to you, what sort? You shall get your supper all the same.—You might leave off gripping me, mind!''
''Not until you tell me where I am.''
She tries to pull her hand away, but I will not let her. Finally, she sucks her teeth.
''House for ladies,'' she says, ''like you.''
''Like me?''
''Like you. Poor ladies, widow ladies—wicked ladies, I shouldn''t wonder.—There!''
I have thrust her wrist aside.
''I don''t believe you,'' I say. ''I am meant to come to an hotel. Mr Hawtrey paid you for that—''
''Paid me to bring you here, and then to leave you. Most particular. If you don''t like it—'' She reaches into her pocket. ''Why, here''s his very hand.''
She has brought out a piece of paper. It is the paper that Mr Hawtrey put about the coin. It has the name of the house upon it__