le savour.

Still travelling with as small expense as might be, he reached London
in the forenoon, left his luggage at Victoria Station, and, after a
meal, betook himself in the northerly direction. It was a rainy and
uncomfortable day, but this did not much affect his spirits; he felt
like a man new risen from illness, seemed to have cast off something
that had threatened his very existence, and marvelled at the state of
mind in which it had been possible for him to inhabit London without
turning his steps towards the address of Eve Madeley.

He discovered Belmont Street. It consisted of humble houses, and was
dreary enough to look upon. As he sought for No. 93, a sudden
nervousness attacked him; he became conscious all at once of the
strangeness of his position. At this hour it was unlikely that Eve
would be at home an inquiry at the house and the leaving of a verbal
message would discharge his obligation; but he proposed more than that.
It was his resolve to see Eve herself, to behold the face which, in a
picture, had grown so familiar to him. Yet till this moment he had
overlooked the difficulties of the enterprise. Could he, on the
strength of an acquaintance with Mrs. Brewer, claim the friendly
regards of this girl who had never heard his name? If he saw her once,
on what pretext could he seek for a second meeting?

Possibly he would not desire it. Eve in her own person might disenchant
him.

Meanwhile he had discovered the house, and without further debate he
knocked. The door was opened by a woman of ordinary type, slatternly,
and with suspicious eye.

"Miss Madeley _did_ live here," she said, "but she's been gone a month
or more."

"Can you tell me where she is living now?"

After a searching look the woman replied that she could not. In the
manner of her kind, she was anxious to dismiss the inquirer and get the
door shut. Gravely disappointed, Hilliard felt unable to turn away
without a further question.

"Perhaps you know where she is, or was, employed?"

But no information whatever was forthcoming. It very rarely is under
such circumstances, for a London landlady, compounded in general of
craft and caution, tends naturally to reticence on the score of her
former lodgers. If she has parted with them on amicable terms, her
instinct is to shield them against the menace presumed in every
inquiry; if her mood is one of ill-will, she refuses information lest
the departed should reap advantage. And then