“I must see this woman,” she repeated, tapping the paper impatiently with her hand. “Don’t you see she will probably know where he is? She must know! Let us go at once!” “But if she does know?” “If she does know! Why, that is everything! I can follow him. He is frightened--he has lost his head. If he goes away like this he is lost. I am going to stop him.” “But----” She silenced him with a movement of her hand, before which his words died on his lips. “Dennis Falconer,” she said, “help me or refuse to help me as you like, but don’t try to stop me. The shadow of a horror such as this has haunted me for twenty years. I bring the nerve and desperation of twenty years to meet it now, and I am going to save him. Will you come?” Dominated against his will, sternly disapproving, but powerless to assert his disapprobation in the face of the intensity of her determination, Falconer made a slight gesture of enforced assent. Mrs. Romayne hardly waited for it before she turned and went swiftly out of the room and down the stairs. It was early still--not yet eight o’clock--and cabs were hardly to be found. They met one at last, and Falconer put her into it and looked at her, obviously with an intention of uttering the protest with which his face was full. She made a peremptory sign that he should give the address, holding out the letter containing it, and instantly reclaiming it. Her nerves were evidently strung beyond the possibility of irrelevant or unnecessary speech. A long drive followed to a dingy, poverty-stricken neighbourhood, and then, in a dreary-looking little street, the cab stopped. Mrs. Romayne got out with the same rapid, concentrated movements, signing again, with a movement of her set lips, to Falconer that he should ring and make the necessary enquiries. The bell was answered, after an appreciable interval, by a slatternly-looking girl. “A young woman lodges here, I believe,” said Falconer sternly--“a young married woman. Mrs.--Mrs. Roden, or Romayne?” The girl stared at him for a moment with bold, curious eyes, and then transferred the stare to Mrs. Romayne, with a coarse giggle. “Young married woman?” she repeated, with a toss of the head. “Oh, yes; of course! Top floor back!” Before the last words, which conveyed a general intimation that visitors for the top floor back were expected to show themselves up, were well uttered, Mrs. Romayne had crossed the dirty little passage with swift steps and was mounting the stairs. She went straight on until she reached the top landing, and then she turned sharply to Falconer, who had followed her closely. His judgement condemned her proceedings utterly, but his stern sense of her claim upon him remained untouched, and he believed himself to be merely waiting until her impulse should fail her, as it seemed to him it must before long, to take matters into his own hands. “Knock!” she said.