He glanced at his watch and found that it was half an hour after midnight.  There was a light in the lower room into which Jane had taken him on the night of her arrival in town.  Above, the whole of the house seemed in darkness.  He walked a little way down the street and back again.  Jane was dining, he knew, with the Princess de Fenaples, her godmother, and had spoken of going on to a ball with her afterwards.  In that case she could scarcely be home for hours.  Yet somehow he had a joyful conviction that history would repeat itself, that he would find her, as he had once before, entering the house.  His fortune was in the ascendant.  Not even the emptiness of the street discouraged him.  He strolled a little way along and back again.  As he passed the door once more, something bright lying underneath the scraper attracted his notice.  He paused and stooped down.  Almost before he had realised what he was doing, he had picked up a small key, her latch-key, and was holding it in his hand.

He passed down the street again and there seemed something unreal in the broad pavement, the frowning houses, the glow of the gas lamps.  The harmless little key burned his flesh.  All the passionate acuteness of life seemed throbbing again in his veins.  He retraced his steps, making no plans, obeying only an ungovernable instinct.  The street was empty.  He thrust the key into the lock, opened the door, replaced the key under the scraper, entered the house and made his way into the room on the right.

Tallente stood there for a few minutes with fast-beating heart.  He had the feeling that he had burned his boats.  He was face to face now with realities.  There was no sound from anywhere.  A bright fire was burning in the grate.  An easy-chair was drawn up to the side of a small table, on which was placed a tumbler, some biscuits, a box of cigarettes and some matches.  A copper saucepan full of milk stood in the hearth, side by side with some slippers,—­dainty, fur-topped slippers.  Even these slight evidences of her coming presence seemed to thrill him.  Time dissolved away into a dream of anticipation.  Minutes or hours might have passed before he heard the motor stop outside, her voice bidding some friend a cheerful good night, the turning of the key in the door, the drawing of a bolt, a light step in the hall, and then—­Jane.

She was wrapped from head to foot in white furs, a small tiara of emeralds and diamonds on her head.  She entered, humming a tune to herself, serene, desirable.

“Andrew!”

Her exclamation, the light in her eyes, the pleasure which swiftly took the place of her first amazement, intoxicated him.  He drew her into his arms and his voice shook.

“Jane,” he confessed, “I tried to keep away and I couldn’t.  I stole in here to wait for you.  And you’re glad—­thank heavens you’re glad!”

“But how long have you been here?” she asked wonderingly.

He shook his head.