They fell to work again at some last details, and it was not far from midnight when they left the great white building on the hill. In spite of the engrossing matters which had employed them, both men had been haunted by the recollection of their conversation the night before, about Constance Maitland--but neither had spoken her name. Thorndyke said, as they came out on the deserted moonlit plaza: “It’s a pity Mrs. Crane can’t be here to listen to you speak to-morrow.” “Yes,” replied Crane, promptly. “But I have written her about it, and I shall send her a despatch as soon as I get through to-morrow. By the way, I sent Miss Maitland a ticket to the reserved gallery. I shall probably see her at the French Embassy, where I am going to take a look at the ball.” It was Crane’s first invitation to the French Embassy, and he was slightly elated at it, and being unable to conceal anything, Thorndyke saw his elation. His only reply to Crane’s important communication was, “Good-night--here’s my car.” And he jumped aboard the trailer just passing. When he reached his own door he turned away from it. The night was growing more enchantingly lovely every hour. A great white April moon was riding high in the heavens, and the soft freshness of the spring night was in the air. Thorndyke made the beauty of the night an excuse to himself for remaining out of doors. In truth, he had felt a yearning, ever since Crane had first told him that Constance Maitland was in Washington, to see her habitation--it was next to seeing her. He struggled against it for an hour or two, walking away from the street wherein she dwelt. He soon found himself in the poorer part of Washington, a long way from the gay quarters; a part of narrow brick or frame houses, cheap churches, and many small shops. He was reminded of that saying, as old as Plato, who did not himself say it first: “In all cities there are two cities--the city of the poor and the city of the rich.” The city of the poor in Washington, however, is the least disheartening of its sort in the world--for even the poorest house has air and space and sunlight about it and green trees to shelter it. After having wandered about until he felt certain the West End was asleep, Thorndyke yielded to the overmastering impulse and set out for his goal at the other end of the town. He soon entered Massachusetts Avenue--that long and beautiful avenue, shaded with double rows of lindens, their pale green buds breaking out into their first delicate leaf, the vista broken by open spaces with statues, and closing with the rich foliage of Dupont Circle. All was quiet, silent, and more and more brightly moonlit. No glaring gas lamps marred the light or darkness of the perfect night--for in Washington when the moon shines the gas lamps don’t shine. Thorndyke’s soul, dragging his unwilling feet, brought him to one of the pretty side streets opening upon the splendid avenue. It was here that Constance Maitland’s house was.