In spite of this information, however, he looked into his room, on his way out, in the vague hope of finding a note from Katherine. But there was none. He felt himself in a cruelly false position. Yet he could do nothing. Like a wise man he resolved to await events and in the meantime to proceed with his usual habits. In accordance therefore with the latter, he walked up the Grand Quai and sat down at one of the tables outside the Café du Nord, where he had been accustomed, before his absence at Chamonix, to read the _Journal de Geneve_ and the previous day's _Figaro_. It was pleasant to get back to a part of the former way of life, when Hockmaster was undreamed of. The retirement of his late friend from the pension was a relief to him. He felt he could breathe more freely. If he could be assured that Hockmaster would retire from Geneva as well, and vanish into the Unknown whence he came, he would have been almost happy. He wanted never to set eyes on his face again. But the particularly undesired invariably happens. He was trying to concentrate his mind upon the literary supplement of the _Figaro_, when the ingenuous but now detested voice fell upon his ear. “I was just on my way to ransack the town of Geneva for you.” Raine looked up frowningly. Hockmaster was standing by his side, sprucely attired, clean-shaven, the pink of freshness. His shirt cuffs were immaculately conspicuous, he wore patent-leather boots and carried a new pair of gloves in his hand. His pale-blue eyes looked as innocent as if they had never gazed upon liquid stronger than a pellucid lake. Immediately after he had spoken he sat down and airily waved away the waiter, who was hovering near for orders. “Did you particularly desire to see me?” asked Raine, stiffly. “I do. Particularly. I guess I riled you considerably last night, and my mind would not be easy until I apologized. For anything I did last night and anything I said, I apologize most humbly. I know,” he added with one of his child-like smiles, “that I fell by a long chalk from the image of my Maker, and I can't expect you to forgive me all at once--but if you were to do it by degrees, beginning from now, you would make me feel that I am gradually approximating to it again.” There was a quaint charm in the manner of this astonishing man, to which Raine could not help being susceptible, in spite of his dislike. Besides, the ordinary conventions of life bound him to accept an apology so amply tendered. “You did put me to some trouble,” he said gravely, “and for that I most cordially accept your excuses. For the rest--” he completed the sense with a gesture.. But Hockmaster looked pained. “I see, Mr. Chetwynd. What you can't do is to pal on to a man who has betrayed a woman's honour.”