group blocked the pavement staring up at the news bulletin, which she paused to read.  “Five Millionaire Directors Indicted in New York,” “State Treasurer Accused of Graft,” “Murdock Fortune Contested by Heirs.”  The phrases seemed meaningless, and she hurried on again....  She was being noticed!  A man looked at her, twice, the first glance accidental, the second arresting, appealing, subtly flattering, agitating—­she was sure he had turned and was following her.  She hastened her steps.  It was wicked, what she was doing, but she gloried in it; and even the sight, in burning red letters, of Gruber’s Cafe failed to bring on a revulsion by its association with her sister Lise.  The fact that Lise had got drunk there meant nothing to her now.  She gazed curiously at the illuminated, orange-coloured panes separated by curving leads, at the design of a harp in green, at the sign “Ladies’ Entrance”; listened eagerly to the sounds of voices and laughter that came from within.  She looked cautiously over her shoulder, a shadow appeared, she heard a voice, low, insinuating....

Four blocks farther down she stopped.  The man was no longer following her.  She had been almost self-convinced of an intention to go to Eda’s—­not quite.  Of late her conscience had reproached her about Eda, Janet had neglected her.  She told herself she was afraid of Eda’s uncanny and somewhat nauseating flair for romance; and to show Eda the new suit, though she would relish her friend’s praise, would be the equivalent of announcing an affair of the heart which she, Janet, would have indignantly to deny.  She was not going to Eda’s.  She knew now where she was going.  A prepared but hitherto undisclosed decree of fate had bade her put money in her bag that evening, directed her to the shop to buy the dress, and would presently impel her to go to West Street—­nay, was even now so impelling her.  Ahead of her were the lights of the Chippering Mill, in her ears was the rhythmic sound of the looms working of nights on the Bradlaugh order.  She reached the canal.  The white arc above the end of the bridge cast sharp, black shadows of the branches of the trees on the granite, the thousand windows of the mill shone yellow, reflected in the black water.  Twice she started to go, twice she paused, held by the presage of a coming event, a presage that robbed her of complete surprise when she heard footsteps on the bridge, saw the figure of a man halting at the crown of the arch to look back at the building he had left, his shoulders squared, his hand firmly clasping the rail.  Her heart was throbbing with the looms, and yet she stood motionless, until he turned and came rapidly down the slope of the arch and stopped in front of her.  Under the arc lamp it was almost as bright as day.

“Miss Bumpus!” he exclaimed.

“Mr. Ditmar” she said.

“Were you—­were you coming to the office?”

“I was just out walking,” she told him.  “I thought you were in Boston.”