far from the entrance, however, another cab—­a four-wheeler—­discharged its occupant at a point nearer to the building than where he waited.  It was a woman.  She paid the cabman, who touched his hat with quick and grateful emphasis, and, wheeling his old crock round, clattered away.  The woman glanced along the empty street swiftly, and then hurried to the doorway which opened to Adrian Fellowes’ chambers.

Instantly Stafford recognized her.  It was Jasmine, dressed in black and heavily veiled.  He could not mistake the figure—­there was none other like it; or the turn of her head—­there was only one such head in all England.  She entered the building quickly.

There was nothing to do but wait until she came out again.  No passion stirred in him, no jealousy, no anger.  It was all dead.  He knew why she had come; or he thought he knew.  She would tell the man who had said no word in defense of her, done nothing to protect her, who let the worst be believed, without one protest of her innocence, what she thought of him.  She was foolish to go to him, but women do mad things, and they must not be expected to do the obviously sensible thing when the crisis of their lives has come.  Stafford understood it all.

One thing he was certain Jasmine did not know—­the intimacy between Fellowes and Al’mah.  He himself had been tempted to speak of it in their terrible interview that morning; but he had refrained.  The ignominy, the shame, the humiliation of that would have been beyond her endurance.  He understood; but he shrank at the thought of the nature of the interview which she must have, at the thought of the meeting at all.

He would have some time to wait, no doubt, and he made himself easy in the doorway, where his glance could command the entrance she had used.  He mechanically took out a cigar-case, but after looking at the cigars for a moment put them away again with a sigh.  Smoking would not soothe him.  He had passed beyond the artificial.

His waiting suddenly ended.  It seemed hardly three minutes after Jasmine’s entrance when she appeared in the doorway again, and, after a hasty glance up and down the street, sped away as swiftly as she could, and, at the corner, turned up sharply towards the Strand.  Her movements had been agitated, and, as she hurried on, she thrust her head down into her muff as a woman would who faced a blinding rain.

The interview had been indeed short.  Perhaps Fellowes had already gone abroad.  He would soon find out.

He mounted the deserted staircase quickly and knocked at Fellowes’ door.  There was no reply.  There was a light, however, and he knocked again.  Still there was no answer.  He tried the handle of the door.  It turned, the door gave, and he entered.  There was no sound.  He knocked at an inner door.  There was no reply, yet a light showed in the room.  He turned the handle.  Entering the room, he stood still and looked round.  It seemed empty, but there were signs of packing, of things gathered together hastily.