A limousine swung around the corner and pulled up in front of the door, a few minutes later.  The footman on the box sprang down.  He heard her voice as she said “Good-by” to some one.  The car rolled smoothly away.  She crossed the pavement with an involuntary glance at the tall, approaching figure.

“Jane!” he exclaimed.

She stood quite still, with the latch-key in her hand.  The car was out of sight now and they seemed to be almost alone in the street.  At first there was something almost unfamiliar in her rather startled face, her coiffured hair, her bare neck with its collar of diamonds.  There was a moment of suspense.  Then he saw something flash into her eyes and he was glad to be there.

“You?” she exclaimed, a little breathlessly.  He plunged into explanations.

“My rooms are close by here in Charges Street,” he told her.  “I was walking home from the club and saw you step out of the car.”

“How could you know that I was coming to-day?” she asked.  “I only telephoned Alice after I arrived.”

“To tell you the truth,” he confessed, “I have got into the habit of walking this way home, in case—­well, to-night I have my reward.”

She turned the key in the latch and pushed the door open.

“You must come in,” she invited.

“Isn’t it too late?”

“What does that matter so long as I ask you?”

He followed her gladly into the hall, closing the door behind him.

“That wretched switch is somewhere near here,” she said, feeling along the wall.

Her fingers suddenly met his and stayed passive in his grasp.  She turned a little around as she realised the nearness of him.

“Jane,” he whispered, “I have wanted you so much.”

For a single moment she rested in his arms,—­a wonderful moment, inexplicable, voluptuous, stirring him to the very depths.  Then she slipped away.  Her fingers sought the wall once more and the place was flooded with light.

“You must come in here for a moment,” she said, opening the nearest door.  “I shall not ask you to share my milk, and I am afraid I don’t know where to get you a whisky and soda, but you can light a cigarette and just tell me how things are and when you are coming to see me.”

He followed her into a comfortable little apartment, furnished in mid-Victorian fashion, but with an easy-chair drawn up to the brightly burning fire.  On a table near was a glass of milk and some biscuits.  The ermine cloak slipped from her shoulders.  She stood with one foot upon the fender, half turned towards him.  His eyes rested upon her, filled with a great hunger.

“Well?” she queried.

“You are wonderful,” he murmured.

She laughed and for a moment her eyes fell.

“But, my dear man,” she said, “I don’t want compliments.  I want to know the news.”

“There is none,” he answered.  “We are marking time while Horlock digs his own grave.”