But when he had gone Rita sat for more than half an hour, quite still, her hands clenched and her face a tragic mask. (Gunn, of Spinker’s Agency, reported telephonically to Monte Irvin in the City that the Hon. Quentin Gray had called and had remained about twenty-five minutes; that he had proceeded to the Prince’s Restaurant, and from there to Mudie’s, where he had booked a box at the Gaiety Theatre.) Towards the fall of dusk the more dreadful symptoms which attend upon a sudden cessation of the use of cocaine by a victim of cocainophagia began to assert themselves again. Rita searched wildly in the lining of her jewel-case to discover if even a milligram of the drug had by chance fallen there from the little gold box. But the quest was in vain. As a final resort she determined to go to Margaret Halley again. She hurried to Dover Street, and her last hope was shattered. Margaret was out, and Janet had no idea when she was likely to return. Rita had much ado to prevent herself from bursting into tears. She scribbled a few lines, without quite knowing what she was writing, sealed the paper in an envelope, and left it on Margaret’s table. Of returning to Prince’s Gate and dressing for the evening she had only a hazy impression. The hammer-beats in her head were depriving her of reasoning power, and she felt cold, numbed, although a big fire blazed in her room. Then as she sat before her mirror, drearily wondering if her face really looked as drawn and haggard as the image in the glass, or if definite delusions were beginning, Nina came in and spoke to her. Some moments elapsed before Rita could grasp the meaning of the girl’s words. “Sir Lucien Pyne has rung up, Madam, and wishes to speak to you.” Sir Lucien! Sir Lucien had come back? Rita experienced a swift return of feverish energy. Half dressed as she was, and without pausing to take a wrap, she ran out to the telephone. Never had a man’s voice sounded so sweet as that of Sir Lucien when he spoke across the wires. He was at Albemarle Street, and Rita, wasting no time in explanations, begged him to await her there. In another ten minutes she had completed her toilette and had sent Nina to ’phone for a cab. (One of the minor details of his wife’s behavior which latterly had aroused Irvin’s distrust was her frequent employment of public vehicles in preference to either of the cars.) Quentin Gray she had quite forgotten, until, as she was about to leave: “Is there any message for Mr. Gray, Madam?” inquired Nina naively. “Oh!” cried Rita. “Of course! Quick! Give me some paper and a pencil.” She wrote a hasty note, merely asking Gray to proceed to the restaurant, where she promised to join him, left it in charge of the maid, and hurried off to Albemarle Street. Mareno, the silent, yellow-faced servant who had driven the car on the night of Rita’s first visit to Limehouse, admitted her. He showed her immediately into the lofty study, where Sir Lucien awaited.