“Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor,” she directed, and handed him a penny—­the correct fare.

It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the American lady’s leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the harbingers of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her cozy work-room, Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh.  She stood up, mechanically rearranging her hair as she did so, and crossed the corridor to her bedroom, the window whereof overlooked the Square.

She peered down into the central garden.  A common-looking man sat upon a bench, apparently watching the labors of the gardener, which consisted at the moment of the spiking of scraps of paper which disfigured the green carpet of the lawn.

Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself.  Kindly twilight veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the window-ledge pretended that he had not noticed two tears which trembled, quivering, upon the girl’s lashes.  Almost unconsciously, for it was an established custom, she sprinkled crumbs from the tea-tray beside her upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a written page and two more appeared in turn upon her lashes.

The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by two talkative companions.  As the last fragments dropped from the girl’s white fingers, she withdrew her hand, and slowly—­very slowly—­her head sank down, pillowed upon her arms.

For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded, bade her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the Square.  Then, very resolutely, as if inspired by a settled purpose, she stood up and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.

She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed the traces of her tears, contemplating in dismay a redness of her pretty nose which did not prove entirely amenable to treatment with the powder-puff.  Finally, however, she switched off the light, and, going out on to the landing, descended to the door of Henry Leroux’s flat.

In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door.  She wore her hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.

“Why, Ferris!” cried Helen—­“are you leaving?”

“I am indeed, miss!” said the girl, independently.

“But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?”

“He’ll have to do the best he can.  Cook’s goin’ too!”

“What! cook is going?”

“I am!” announced a deep, female voice.

And the cook appeared beside the maid.

“But whatever—­” began Helen; then, realizing that she could achieve no good end by such an attitude:  “Tell Mr. Leroux,” she instructed the maid, quietly, “that I wish to see him.”

Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the landing, to inquire in an abysmal tone, if “them boxes was ready to be took?” Helen Cumberly forestalled an insolent refusal which the cook, by furtive wink, counseled to the housemaid.