She went into the hall, where her hat, transfixed by a couple of hat-pins, hung above her jacket, assumed these garments, and let herself out into the cold grey street.

She had hardly gone twenty yards from Lagune’s door before she became aware of a man overtaking her and walking beside her.  That kind of thing is a common enough experience to girls who go to and from work in London, and she had had perforce to learn many things since her adventurous Whortley days.  She looked stiffly in front of her.  The man deliberately got in her way so that she had to stop.  She lifted eyes of indignant protest.  It was Lewisham—­and his face was white.

He hesitated awkwardly, and then in silence held out his hand.  She took it mechanically.  He found his voice.  “Miss Henderson,” he said.

“What do you want?” she asked faintly.

“I don’t know,” he said....  “I want to talk to you.”

“Yes?” Her heart was beating fast.

He found the thing unexpectedly difficult.

“May I—?  Are you expecting—?  Have you far to go?  I would like to talk to you.  There is a lot ...”

“I walk to Clapham,” she said.  “If you care ... to come part of the way ...”

She moved awkwardly.  Lewisham took his place at her side.  They walked side by side for a moment, their manner constrained, having so much to say that they could not find a word to begin upon.

“Have you forgotten Whortley?” he asked abruptly.

“No.”

He glanced at her; her face was downcast.  “Why did you never write?” he asked bitterly.

“I wrote.”

“Again, I mean.”

“I did—­in July.”

“I never had it.”

“It came back.”

“But Mrs. Munday ...”

“I had forgotten her name.  I sent it to the Grammar School.”

Lewisham suppressed an exclamation.

“I am very sorry,” she said.

They went on again in silence.  “Last night,” said Lewisham at length.  “I have no business to ask.  But—­”

She took a long breath.  “Mr. Lewisham,” she said.  “That man you saw—­the Medium—­was my stepfather.”

“Well?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Lewisham paused.  “No,” he said.

There was another constrained silence.  “No,” he said less dubiously.  “I don’t care a rap what your stepfather is.  Were you cheating?”

Her face turned white.  Her mouth opened and closed.  “Mr. Lewisham,” she said deliberately, “you may not believe it, it may sound impossible, but on my honour ...  I did not know—­I did not know for certain, that is—­that my stepfather ...”

“Ah!” said Lewisham, leaping at conviction.  “Then I was right....”

For a moment she stared at him, and then, “I did know,” she said, suddenly beginning to cry.  “How can I tell you?  It is a lie.  I did know.  I did know all the time.”

He stared at her in white astonishment.  He fell behind her one step, and then in a stride came level again.  Then, a silence, a silence that seemed it would never end.  She had stopped crying, she was one huge suspense, not daring even to look at his face.  And at last he spoke.