With the first draught his courage returned, his mental perspective commenced to rearrange itself.  Cicely and Joan were in London, Cicely had seen him, Joan had not.  From the first he had realised that there was danger to him in this encounter.  Cicely had seen him, but she had made no motion of recognition, she had obviously refrained from telling her sister of his near presence.  From this he concluded that whilst she believed in him and was still his friend, Joan was his enemy.  He rolled a cigarette with nervous fingers, and lighted it.  Did Joan suspect that he was still alive? and was she looking for him?  To the world in general Douglas Guest was dead.  How was it with these two girls?  There were various small reasons why they might be inclined to doubt what to other people would seem obvious.  He recalled Joan’s face, grim and forbidding enough, almost a tragical figure in her black garb, as severe and sombre as a country dressmaker could fashion it.  He must get to know these things.  He must find Cicely.  He walked thoughtfully back to the offices of the Courier, where he found some work, which, for the time, completely engrossed him.

The next morning the following advertisement appeared in most of the London newspapers.

“To C. S. I must see you.  British Museum to-day at six.”

For three days Douglas watched in vain.  On the fourth his heart gave a great leap, for a sombre little figure stepped out from an omnibus at the corner of Russell Square and stood hesitatingly upon the pavement, looking in through the iron bars at the Museum.  He came across the street to her boldly—­she turned and saw him.  After all, their greeting approached the conventional.  He remembered to raise his hat—­she held out her hand—­would have withdrawn it, but found it already clasped in his.

“Cicely.  How good of you.  You saw my advertisement?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw me in the Strand, but you would not speak to me.  Was that because of Joan?”

“Yes.”

“I want to talk to you,” he said.  “I have so much to say.”

She raised her eyes to his, and he saw for the first time how much thinner she was.

“Douglas,” she said, “there is something I must ask you first of all before I stay with you for a moment.  Must I put it into words?”

“I do not think you need, Cicely,” he answered.  “I went to your father’s room that night beyond a doubt, but I never raised my hand against him.  I should have very hard work to prove it, I fancy, but I am wholly innocent of his death—­innocent, that is to say, so far as any direct action of mine was concerned.”

She drew a long deep breath of relief.  Then she looked up to him with a beautiful smile.

“Douglas,” she said, “I was sure of it, yet it is a great weight from my heart to hear you say so.  Now, can you take me somewhere where we can talk?  I am afraid of the streets.  I will tell you why afterwards.”