She made one or two convulsive confirmatory clutches at it from the outside, then, with a throe of actual despair, she thrust her hand into her pocket.

It was a crushing fact, her purse was gone--her purse that held the possibilities of her journalistic future molten and stamped in eight golden sovereigns--her purse! Elfrida cast one hopeless look at the pavement behind her before she allowed herself to realize the situation.
Then she faced it, addressing a dainty French oath to the necessity.

"Come," she said to herself, "now it begins to be really amusing--_la vraie comedie_." She saw herself in the part--it was an artistic pleasure--alone, in a city of melodrama, without a penny, only her brains.
Besides, the sense of extremity pushed and concentrated her; she walked on with new energy and purpose.

As she turned into the Haymarket a cab drew up almost in front of her.

Through its rain-beaten glass front she recognized a face--Kendal's.