visible, but his low rapping brought no
response. He rapped again--three times, and each louder--but with the
same result.

"No use to keep this up," he concluded, vexatiously. "I am a few minutes
late, and she has gone out, thinking that I would not come. There is no
mistake about the room. I won't wait--I'll write to her to-morrow, and
give her twenty-four hours to get out of London."

He went slowly down the dark stairs, and as he stepped into the street
he brushed against a stout, elderly woman. With a muttered apology, he
moved aside. The woman turned and looked after him sharply for an
instant, then entered the house and closed the door.

Jack thought nothing of the incident. How to put in the evening was
the question that concerned him. He was walking undecidedly down the
Quadrant when he saw approaching an artist friend whom he did not care
to meet. On the impulse of the moment he darted across the street,
narrowly missing the wheels of a hansom, and in front of the Cafe Royal
he ran into the arms of Victor Nevill.

"Hello, old chap; you _are_ in a hurry!" cried Nevill. "What's up now?
Seen my uncle?"

Jack was flushed and breathless.

"No; I couldn't manage it," he panted. "I left a note at Morley's for
him. I had to make a call--party wasn't at home."

"Where are you bound for? Morley's?"

"No; it's too late. Shall we have some refreshment?"

"Sorry, but I can't," replied Nevill. "I'm going to a reception. Will
you come to my rooms at eleven?"

"Yes, if I'm not too far away. But don't count on me. Good-night, in
case I don't see you again."

"Good-night," echoed Nevill.

As he looked after Jack, the latter pulled out his handkerchief,
and a white object fluttered from it to the pavement. He walked on,
unconscious of its loss. Nevill hurried to the spot, and picked up
a letter.

"A woman's!" he muttered, as he thrust it quickly into his pocket. "And
the writing seems familiar. I'll examine this when I get a chance.
Everything is fair in the game I am playing."

Jack wandered irresolutely to Piccadilly Circus, seeking distraction.
In the American bar at the St. James' he met a man named Ingram, who
suggested that they should go to see a mutual friend--an artist--who
lived in Bedford Park. Jack agreed, and they drove in a cab. They found
a lot of other men they knew at the studio, and whisky and tobacco made
the hours fly. They left at two o'clock in the morning--a convivial
party of five--and