It was dinner-time before Chilcote could desert the House, but the moment departure was possible he hurried to Grosvenor Square.

As he entered the house, the hall was empty.  He swore irritably under his breath and pressed the nearest bell.  Since his momentary exaltation in Fraide’s presence, his spirits had steadily fallen, until now they hung at the lowest ebb.

As he waited in unconcealed impatience for an answer to his summons, he caught sight of his man Allsopp at the head of the stairs.

“Come here!” he called, pleased to find some one upon whom to vent his irritation.  “Has that wire come for me?”

“No, sir.  I inquired five minutes back.”

“Inquire again.”

“Yes, sir.”  Allsopp disappeared.

A second after his disappearance the bell of the hall door whizzed loudly.

Chileote started.  All sudden sounds, like all strong lights, affected him.  He half moved to the door, then stopped himself with a short exclamation.  At the same instant Allsopp reappeared.

Chilcote turned on him excitedly.

“What the devil’s the meaning of this?” he said.  “A battery of servants in the house and nobody to open the hall door!”

Allsopp looked embarrassed.  “Crapham is coming directly, sir.  He only left the hall to ask Jeffries—­”

Chilcote turned.  “Confound Crapham!” he exclaimed.  “Go and open the door yourself.”

Allsopp hesitated, his dignity struggling with his obedience.  As he waited, the bell sounded again.

“Did you hear me?” Chilcote said.

“Yes, sir.”  Allsopp crossed the hall.

As the door was opened Chilcote passed his handkerchief from one hand to the other in the tension of hope and fear; then, as the sound of his own name in the shrill tones of a telegraph-boy reached his ears, he let the handkerchief drop to the ground.

Allsopp took the yellow envelope and carried it to his master.

“A telegram, sir,” he said.  “And the boy wishes to know if there is an answer.”  Picking up Chilcote’s handkerchief, he turned aside with elaborate dignity.

Chilcote’s hands were so unsteady that he could scarcely insert his finger under the flap of the envelope.  Tearing off a corner, he wrenched the covering apart and smoothed out the flimsy pink paper.

The message was very simple, consisting of but seven words: 

   “Shall expect you at eleven to-night.-Loder.”

He read it two or three times, then he looked up.  “No answer,” he said, mechanically; and to his own ears the relief in his voice sounded harsh and unnatural.

Exactly as the clocks chimed eleven Chilcote mounted the stairs to Loder’s rooms.  But this time there was more of haste than of uncertainty in his steps, and, reaching the landing, he crossed it in a couple of strides and knocked feverishly on the door.