Her hands fell to her sides.  She turned half away but she said nothing.  Tavernake, with a sudden impulse which had in it nothing of passion—­very little, indeed, of affection—­lifted her fingers to his lips and passed out of the room.  He descended the stairs, filled with a wonderful sense of elation, a buoyancy of spirit which he could not understand.  As he walked blithely to his hotel, however, he began to realize how much he had dreaded this interview.  He was a free man, after all.  The spell was broken.  He could think of her now as she deserved to be thought of, as a consummate woman of the world, selfish, heartless, conscienceless.  He was well out of her toils.  It was nothing to him if even he had known that at that moment she was lying upon the sofa to which she had staggered as he left the room, weeping bitterly.

For over an hour Tavernake endured the smells and the bad atmosphere of that miserable little music-hall, watching eagerly each time the numbers were changed.  Then at last, towards the end of the program, the manager appeared in front.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I regret very much to inform you that owing to the indisposition of the young lady, Miss Beatrice Franklin and her father are unable to appear to-night.  I have pleasure in announcing an extra turn, namely the Sisters De Vere in their wonderful burlesque act.”

There was a murmur of disapprobation mingled with some cheering.  Tavernake left his place and walked around to the back of the hall.  Presently the manager came out to him.

“I am sorry to trouble you, sir,” Tavernake said,"but I heard your announcement just now from the front.  Can you give me the address of Professor Franklin?  I am a friend, and I should like to go and see them.”

The manager pointed to the stage-doorkeeper.

“This man will give it you,” he announced, shortly.  “It’s quite close.  I shall look in myself after the show to know how the young lady is.”

Tavernake procured the address and set out in the taxicab which he had kept waiting.  The driver listened to the direction doubtfully.

“It’s a poor sort of neighborhood, sir,” he remarked.

“We’ve got to go there,” Tavernake told him.

They reached it in a few minutes, a miserable street indeed.  Tavernake knocked at the door of the house to which he was directed, with sinking heart.  A man, collarless and half dressed, in carpet slippers, opened the door after a few moments’ waiting.

“Well, what is it?” he asked, gruffly.

“Is Professor Franklin here?” Tavernake inquired.

The man seemed as though he were about to slam the door, but thought better of it.

“If you’re a friend of the professor’s, as he calls himself,” he said, “and you’ve any money to shell out, why, you’re welcome, but if you’re only asking out of curiosity, let me tell you that he used to lodge here but he’s gone, and if I’d had my way he’d have gone a week ago, him and his daughter, too.”