“Sir Owen is in the study, sir.”

And Ulick came in somewhat hurriedly.  There was a light in his eyes which told Owen that something had happened, something that would interest him, and nothing could interest him unless news of Evelyn.

“Have you seen her?” and Owen took off his spectacles.

“Yes,” Ulick answered, “I have seen her.”

“You met her?”

“Yes.”

“By accident?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Ulick was too excited to sit down; he walked about the hearthrug in order to give more emphasis to his story.

“My hansom turned suddenly out of a large thoroughfare into some mean streets, and the neighbourhood seemed so sordid that I was just going to tell the driver to avoid such short cuts for the future when I caught sight of a tall figure in brown holland.  To meet Evelyn in such a neighbourhood seemed very unlikely, but as the cab drew nearer I could not doubt that it was she.  I put up my stick, but at that moment Evelyn turned into a doorway.”

“You knocked?”

Ulick nodded.

“What sort of place was it?”

“All noise and dirt; a lot of boys.”

“A school?”

“It seemed more like a factory.  Evelyn came forward and said, ’I will see you in half an hour, if you will wait for me at my flat,’ ’But I don’t know the address,’ I said.  She gave me the address, Ayrdale Mansions, and I went away in the cab; and after a good deal of driving we discovered Ayrdale Mansions, a huge block, all red brick and iron, a sort of model dwelling-houses, rather better.”

“Good Lord!”

“I went up a stone staircase.”

“No carpet?”

“No.  Merat opened the door to me.  I told her I had met Miss Innes in a slum; she followed me into the drawing-room, saying, ’One of these days Mademoiselle will bring back some horrid things with her.’”

“Good Lord!  Tell me what her rooms were like?”

“The flat is better than you would expect to find in such a building.  It is the staircase that makes the place look like a model dwelling-house.  There is a drawing-room and a dining-room.”

“What kind of furniture has she in the drawing-room?”

“An oak settle in the middle of the room and—­”

“That doesn’t sound very luxurious.”

“But there are photographs of pictures on the walls, Italian saints, the Renaissance, you know, Botticelli and Luini; her writing-table is near the window, and covered with papers; she evidently writes a great deal.  Merat tells me she spends her evenings writing there quite contented.”

“That will do about the room; now tell me about herself.”

“She came in looking very like herself.”

“Glad to see you?”

“I think she was.  She didn’t seem to have any scruples about seeing me.  Our meeting was pure accident, so she was not responsible.”