Scarcely had he closed the door behind him when he became aware that a lightly tripping and rather showily dressed girl, who was coming down the other side of the way, had turned off the pavement and was plying the knocker at the house which interested him.  He gazed eagerly.  Impossible that a young person of that garb and deportment should be Eve Madeley.  Her face was hidden from him, and at this distance he could not have recognised the features, even presuming that his familiarity with the portrait, taken more than two years ago, would enable him to identify Eve when he saw her.  The door opened; the girl was admitted.  Afraid of being noticed, he walked on.

The distance to the head of the street was not more than thirty yards; there lay Gower Street, on the right hand the Metropolitan station, to the left a long perspective southwards.  Delaying in doubt as to his course, Hilliard glanced back.  From the house which attracted his eyes he saw come forth the girl who had recently entered, and close following her another young woman.  They began to walk sharply towards where he stood.

He did not stir, and the couple drew so near that he could observe their faces.  In the second girl he recognised—­or believed that he recognised—­Eve Madeley.

She wore a costume in decidedly better taste than her companion’s; for all that, her appearance struck him as quite unlike that he would have expected Eve Madeley to present.  He had thought of her as very plainly, perhaps poorly, clad; but this attire was ornate, and looked rather expensive; it might be in the mode of the new season.  In figure, she was altogether a more imposing young woman than he had pictured to himself.  His pulses were sensibly quickened as he looked at her.

The examination was of necessity hurried.  Walking at a sharp pace, they rapidly came close to where he stood.  He drew aside to let them pass, and at that moment caught a few words of their conversation.

“I told you we should be late,” exclaimed the unknown girl, in friendly remonstrance.

“What does it matter?” replied Eve—­if Eve it were.  “I hate standing at the doors.  We shall find seats somewhere.”

Her gay, careless tones astonished the listener.  Involuntarily he began to follow; but at the edge of the pavement in Gower Street they stopped, and by advancing another step or two he distinctly overheard the continuation of their talk.

“The ’bus will take a long time.”

“Bother the ’bus!” This was Eve Madeley again—­if Eve it could really be.  “We’ll have a cab.  Look, there’s a crawler in Euston Road.  I’ve stopped him!”

“I say, Eve, you are going it!”

This exclamation from the other girl was the last sentence that fell on Hilliard’s ear.  They both tripped off towards the cab which Eve’s gesture had summoned.  He saw them jump in and drive away.

“I say, Eve, you are going it!” Why, there his doubt was settled; the name confirmed him in his identification.  But he stood motionless with astonishment.