He reached the hall and was about to cross the foyer when he caught the words, “Gentleman thrown out of a cab,” uttered by a handsome girl, cheaply but gaudily attired, who was making some inquiry at the bureau.

He stopped and searched for a match.  Then he became interested in the latest news, pinned in strips on the baize-covered board of a “ticker.”

The girl explained to an official that she had witnessed an accident that evening.  She was told that a gentleman who lived in the hotel was hurt.  Was he seriously injured?

The hotel man, from long practice, was enabled to sum up such inquirers rapidly.

“Do you know the gentleman?” he inquired.

“No—­that is, slightly.”

“Well, madam, if you give me your card I will send it to his friends.  They will give you all necessary information.”

She became confused.  She was not accustomed to the quiet elegance of a great hotel.  The men in evening dress, the gorgeously attired ladies passing to elevator or drawing-room, seemed to be listening to her.  Why did the bureau keeper speak so loudly?  Then the assurance of the Cockney came to her aid.

“I don’t see why there should be such a fuss about nothing,” she said.  “I don’t know his people.  I saw the gentleman pitched out of a cab and was sorry for him, so I just called to ask how he was.”

She angrily tossed her head, and stared insolently at an old lady who came to inquire if there were any letters for the Countess of Skerry and Ness.

“No letters, your ladyship,” said the man.  “And you, miss, must either send a personal message or see the manager.”

The young woman bounced out in a fury, and Brett followed her, silently thanking the favouring planets which had sent him down the stairs at the very moment when the girl was proffering her request to the clerk.

Fortunately, the weather was better now.  There was a clear sky overhead, and the streets looked quite cheerful after the steady downpour, London’s myriad lamps being reflected in glistening zigzags across the wet pavement.

The girl did not head towards the busy Strand, but walked direct to Charing Cross station on the District Railway.

The barrister thought she intended to go somewhere by train.  He quickened his pace in order to be able to rapidly obtain a ticket and thus keep up with her.  Herein he was lucky.  To his surprise, she passed out of the station on the embankment side.

He followed, and nowhere could he see her.  Then he remembered the steps leading to the footpath along the Hungerford Bridge.  Running up these steps he soon caught sight of the young woman, who was walking rapidly towards Waterloo.

A man of the artisan class stared at her as she passed, and said something to her.  She turned fiercely.

“Do you want a swipe on the jaw?” she demanded.

No, he did not.  What had he done, he would like to know.