ed by the fact that she was alone. During the last few weeks
Ferrier had always been standing on the platform waiting to greet her,
eager to hurry her into a cab--to a picture gallery, to a concert, or of
late, oftenest of all, to one of those green oases which the great town
still leaves her lovers.

But now Ferrier was not here. Ferrier was ill, solitary, in the lonely
rooms which he called "home."

Agnes Barlow hurried out of the station.

Hammer, hammer, hammer went what she supposed was her heart. It was a
curious, to Agnes a new sensation, bred of the fear that she would meet
some acquaintance to whom she would have to explain her presence in
town. She could not help being glad that the fog was of that dense,
stifling quality which makes every one intent on his own business rather
than on that of his neighbours.

Then something happened which scared Agnes. She was walking, now very
slowly, out of the station, when a tall man came up to her. He took off
his hat and peered insolently into her face.

"I think I've had the pleasure of meeting you before," he said.

She stared at him with a great, unreasonable fear gripping her heart. No
doubt this was some business acquaintance of Frank's. "I--I don't think
so," she faltered.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Don't you remember, two years ago at the Pirola in
Regent Street? I don't _think_ I can be wrong."

And then Agnes understood. "You are making a mistake," she said
breathlessly, and quickened her steps.

The man looked after her with a jeering smile, but he made no further
attempt to molest her.

She was trembling--shaken with fear, disgust, and terror. It was odd,
but such a thing had never happened to pretty Agnes Barlow before. She
was not often alone in London; she had never been there alone on such a
foggy evening, an evening which invited such approaches as those she had
just repulsed.

She touched a respectable-looking woman on the arm. "Can you tell me the
way to Flood Street, Chelsea?" she asked, her voice faltering.

"Why, yes, Miss. It's a good step from here, but you can't mistake it.
You've only got to go straight along, and then ask again after you've
been walking about twenty minutes. You can't mistake it." And she
hurried on, while Agnes tried to keep in step behind her, for the slight
adventure outside the station became retrospectively terrifying. She
thrilled with angry fear lest that--that brute should still be stalking
her; but when she lo