When the clock at the Law Courts was striking the half-hour after twelve, he came up out of that depth of journalism which lies like a hidden world below the level of Fleet Street and made his way along towards the Strand.  There was a definite intention in his movements.  He walked quickly; turned up without hesitation into Southampton Street, and again into King Street.  There the speed of his steps lessened and, walking past the premises of Bonsfield & Co., he kept his eyes in the direction of the window at which he had first seen Sally Bishop at work.

She was there, her fingers more lively now than when he had seen them before, in their eternal dance upon the untiring keys.  In the lingering glance he took at her as he walked slowly by, there was much that was curiosity, but a greater interest.  Thoughts had swept through his mind since the previous Saturday night.  He saw her now from a different point of view.  He still found her attractive-compellingly so.  There was something exquisitely naive about her, an innocence that was precious.  In all the sordid side of life that he had seen—­that was his daily portion to see, for the journalism of a free lance can be sordid indeed—­he found her fresh.  That had been the swift impression which he had formed in the few moments that he had seen her, spoken to her, on the top of the ’bus from Piccadilly Circus.  At this second sight of her, he was not disillusioned.  Even there, in the midst of offices, chained to the machine at which she worked, she seemed cut out from her surroundings—­a personality apart.

He walked past the book shop, down the street, until he came within sight of the clock in the post-office in Bedford Street.  It was ten minutes to one.  He turned back again.  It was a practical certainty that she would be going out to lunch at one.  The only question that arose as a difficulty in his mind was the possibility of her being accompanied by some other member of Bonsfield’s staff.  He knew that it would be inconsiderate to approach her then.

Finally he decided to a wait her coming in one of the arches of Covent Garden market, from whence he could survey the entire length of the street.  He had scarcely taken up his position when she came out into view.  She walked in his direction, She was alone.

Traill felt a sensation in his blood.  It was not unaccountable, but it was unexpected.  A combination of eagerness and timidity, that he would have ridiculed in any one else, had mastered him for the moment.  Years ago, he would have understood it, expected it.  Now he was thirty-six.  A man who has lived to his age, lived the years moreover in his way, does not look to be moved to school-boy timidity by the sight of a woman.  He pulled a cigarette-case out of his pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it before he was really conscious of this action.

She passed down Southampton Street into the Strand without noticing him.  Then for the second time he followed.  It was an easy matter to keep the blue feather in her hat in sight in the crowds of people all hurrying to get the most of the hour for their mid-day meal.  He let her keep some yards ahead.  Then she vanished into a restaurant at the corner of Wellington Street.  He smiled.  The matter was as good as done now.  In another three minutes he would be ten pounds in her debt.