“I’ll take this now, sir.” He lifted the grip from the bed. “Will you be coming by the first or the second continental on Friday? Ostend four-thirty, Paris eight-thirty.” “Four-thirty,” said Gordon. The die was cast. He gathered the second and smaller grip, paid his bill at the desk and went out. It was chiming the quarter before eleven when he entered Victoria Station; the train left at twelve. There was no need to rush for seats. He had his Pullman reservation in his pocket. Happily the day was raw, the sun and rain alternately, blustering wind all the time. He could turn up the collar of his greatcoat. On the indicator board he read: “Wind N. N. W. Sea moderate to rough. Visibility good.” He was glad, at any rate, that the visibility was good. And then he looked around for Heloise. They had arranged to meet for the briefest space of time. At ten minutes to eleven, he grew restive, was on the point of picking up his valise, when he saw her hurrying toward him, glancing furtively behind. And there was something in her face that made his breath come a little more quickly. “Follow me into the waiting-room!” She had passed him with this muttered message. Like a man in a dream, Gordon picked up his bag and followed. The big waiting-hall was nearly empty, and to its emptiest corner she led him. “Gordon, a dreadful thing has happened.” Her agitation communicated itself to his unquiet bosom. “My husband has returned unexpectedly from Kongo. He is following me ... he is mad--mad! Oh, Gordon, what have I done!” He did not swoon; rather, he experienced all the sensations without losing consciousness. “He swears I have transferred my affections, and says he will never rest until he stretches the man dead at my feet. He said he would do dreadful things ... he is a great admirer of Peter the Great.” “Is he?” said Gordon. It seemed a futile question to ask, but he could think of nothing else. And he was not a little bit interested in Mr. van Oynne’s historical leanings. “Gordon, you must go on to Ostend and wait for me,” she said rapidly. “I will come as soon as possible ... oh, my dear, you don’t _know_ how I’m feeling!” Gordon was so immensely absorbed in his own feelings that he made no effort of imagination. “Didn’t you tell him that our ... our friendship was just ... spiritual?” he asked. Her smile was faint and sad and shadowy. A ghost who had overheard a good one in a smoking-room might have laughed as hilariously. “My dear ... who _would_ believe that? Now hurry, I must go.” Her little hand trembled for a second on his arm and she was gone. He picked up his bag, it was curiously heavy, and followed her into the station. She was nowhere in sight. A porter stretched a suggestive hand toward his baggage. “Continental train, sir ... have you got a seat?” Gordon looked up at the clock. It wanted five minutes of eleven. “Eleven-five the boat train, sir,” said the porter.