Miss Colyer shrugged her shoulders. "I haven’t the faintest idea. As you ought to know, Mr. Dale, Ruby was never one of the chatty ones, never gabbled about her own affairs or other people’s like the rest of the girls." She held out a neatly-gloved hand. "I must rush away; late as usual. I expect you’ll hear from Ruby in a day or two. I remember now she talked about the Continent—Paris, I believe. Said she’d send me picture postcards—of course, the little wretch never has.... So long." Iris Colyer disappeared with a nod of her head. Rupert remained standing in the passage, pushed about and buffeted to and fro by stage hands and dressers as they passed in and out, until he recovered himself with an effort and made his way into the street and walked slowly along in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. He found it difficult to believe that Ruby had gone away suddenly without a word to him, without even leaving her address. She had not complained of feeling ill the day they parted. He could not believe she had gone away. A sudden fear struck him that perhaps she was seriously ill. Calling a cab he drove to her flat in Baker Street. He rang the bell three times without receiving an answer, then he went in search of the porter. The man corroborated what Iris Colyer had told him. Miss Strode had gone away for a holiday. He did not know where she had gone, but he remembered her telling the driver of the taxi-cab to take her to Victoria Station. She had left about eight o’clock on the evening of the same day Rupert had started for Devonshire. She had said she would send an address to which letters could be forwarded, but up to the present she had not done so. Rupert was on the point of asking if she had gone alone, then he checked himself, ashamed of the thought. For jealousy had prompted it. He turned away without a word and walked blindly down the street. The contemptible thought which had entered his heart, prompted by a sudden wave of jealousy, was swept away by the return of the dreadful fear which had assailed him several times during the last forty-eight hours, and against which he had so far fought successfully. But now it would not be denied. It brought with it a horrible suspicion. Why had she gone away? he asked himself again and again, still not daring to find the answer which fear prompted. When she had said good-bye to him at his rooms in Westminster she must have known she was going and have made her preparations. Yet she had carefully concealed the fact from him. It was not a case of illness. He would have seen it or she would have told him. He knew she had not tired of her work at the Ingenue. She loved the theatre. Then why had she gone? Why had she suddenly run away from him, from London, from life? She loved him. Nothing could shake his faith in her love. She had proved it. Her love had saved him from taking his own life.