She had assumed that she was not likely to move.

The possibility that Death might have moved her without consulting her convenience did not seem to have occurred to her.
It did to Charles Turold though, on his journey up from Cornwall.

But he thrust the chilling thought resolutely from him, clinging to his slight clue because he had nothing else to sustain him, building such hopes upon it that by the time he reached London scarcely a doubt remained.

He spent the last hour of his journey picturing his meeting with the runaway girl, holding her, kissing her, sheltering her in his arms from the world.

And afterwards?
He refused to contemplate what was to happen afterwards, and how he was to shield her from the unsentimental clutch of the law which was also seeking her.