When she had passed him he again studied her back, swiftly and covertly.  No, sir.  No question about it.  It couldn’t be denied by any one now that the girl was a freak, for, charitable though Our Mr. Wrenn was, he had to admit that there was no sign of the midback ridge and little rounded knobbinesses of corseted respectability.  And he had a closer view of the texture of her sage-green crash gown.

“Golly!” he said to himself; “of all the doggone cloth for a dress!  Reg’lar gunny-sacking.  She’s skinny, too.  Bright-red hair.  She sure is the prize freak.  Kind of good-looking, but—­get a brick!”

He hated to rule so clever-seeming a woman quite out of court.  But he remembered her scissors glance at him, and his soft little heart became very hard.

How brittle are our steel resolves!  When Mr. Wrenn walked out of Mrs. Cattermole’s excellent establishment and heavily inspected the quiet Bloomsbury Street, with a cat’s-meat-man stolidly clopping along the pavement, as loneliness rushed on him and he wondered what in the world he could do, he mused, “Gee!  I bet that red-headed lady would be interestin’ to know.”

A day of furtive darts out from his room to do London, which glumly declined to be done.  He went back to the Zoological Gardens and made friends with a tiger which, though it presumably came from an English colony, was the friendliest thing he had seen for a week.  It did yawn, but it let him talk to it for a long while.  He stood before the bars, peering in, and whenever no one else was about he murmured:  “Poor fella, they won’t let you go, heh?  You got a worse boss ’n Goglefogle, heh?  Poor old fella.”

He didn’t at all mind the disorder and rancid smell of the cage; he had no fear of the tiger’s sleek murderous power.  But he was somewhat afraid of the sound of his own tremorous voice.  He had spoken aloud so little lately.

A man came, an Englishman in a high offensively well-fitting waistcoat, and stood before the cage.  Mr. Wrenn slunk away, robbed of his new friend, the tiger, the forlornest person in all London, kicking at pebbles in the path.

As half-dusk made the quiet street even more detached, he sat on the steps of his rooming-house on Tavistock Place, keeping himself from the one definite thing he wanted to do—­the thing he keenly imagined a happy Mr. Wrenn doing—­dashing over to the Euston Station to find out how soon and where he could get a train for Liverpool and a boat for America.

A girl was approaching the house.  He viewed her carelessly, then intently.  It was the freak lady of Mrs. Cattermole’s Tea House—­the corsetless young woman of the tight-fitting crash gown and flame-colored hair.  She was coming up the steps of his house.

He made room for her with feverish courtesy.  She lived in the same house—­He instantly, without a bit of encouragement from the uninterested way in which she snipped the door to, made up a whole novel about her.  Gee!  She was a French countess, who lived in a reg’lar chateau, and she was staying in Bloomsbury incognito, seeing the sights.  She was a noble.  She was—­