She did not see Thorndyke and the Cranes as they walked out of the station--but both men saw her. Annette Crane had abundant confirmation of her hypothesis about Thorndyke. His clear-cut, but rather plain, features became almost handsome as he watched the passing vision of the woman he loved. Of far more interest to Annette was Crane’s countenance. It was full of expression, and he was totally untrained in controlling it. There was in his eyes a strange and complex look, which Annette interpreted instantly to mean, “You are the type of woman I most admire and to whom I most aspire.” It struck her to the heart, but, unlike Crane, she had acquired an admirable composure which made her mistress of herself. She was glad, however, that Constance had not seen her first, after two days of hard travel. When the Cranes had reached the suburban villa where Crane lived, a number of letters and despatches were awaiting him. Two or three men, Hardeman among them, came out that evening to see him. From them Annette found out the great struggle in which her husband was engaged. He had scarcely mentioned it to her. Not a word of inquiry or reproach from her followed. When Crane, however, alluded to the great fight some days afterward, he was a little staggered to find that Annette knew as much about it as anybody. A study of the newspaper files at the National Library had enlightened her. Thorndyke did not see Constance for some days after his return; that is to say, he did not show himself to her. But he resumed his nightly prowl in her neighbourhood--a practice ridiculous or pathetic according to the view one takes of an honourable and sensitive man, whose honour stands between him and the love of his life. He did not dream that Constance knew of it, but the fact was she had known of it from the very beginning. It was this knowledge which made her somewhat sad dark eyes grow bright, which brought out a delicate flush upon her cheeks, and gave her step the airy spring of her first girlhood. It is the glorious privilege of love to restore their lost youth to those who love. Constance knew, by an unerring instinct, that Thorndyke, like herself, treasured everything of their past--that past, so ethereal, so innocent, so dreamlike, but to them eternal as the heavens. On the first evening after Thorndyke’s return, when Constance, from her balcony, half-hidden in towering palms, caught sight of the flame of Thorndyke’s cigar as he strolled by in the murky night, she slipped within the darkened drawing-room. The next moment Thorndyke heard her playing softly some chords of the old, old songs--nay, even singing a stanza or two. It filled his heart with a vehement hope that set his pulses off like wild horses, into an ecstasy which lasted until he got home to his old-fashioned bachelor quarters. What! Ask Constance Maitland to give up her beautiful home, her carriages, her French gowns for _that_! Thorndyke called himself a blankety-blank fool, with an