When it did, he was surprised to find what emotions swept in with it. He had looked into the eyes of a tragedy deep beyond sounding. What it meant he could not know; yet some intimacy engendered of that soul-searching had awakened in him a pity profound beyond terror. His face was very pale, but his lips were firmly set, as he went about his business of investigating. He found, and expected to find, nothing to explain the appearance. The room was empty of all but its customary appointments. Having satisfied himself--even as to the absurdest, most attenuated lurking-places--he switched off the light, locked the door deliberately behind him, and, descending the stairs, summoned the porter. He had just a single question to ask the man; he put it to him as nonchalantly as possible: he supposed, in short, that no lady had come to request an interview with him after closing-time, or had been invited to await his possible return. The answer was uncompromising, indignantly self-righteous, reassuring for the best of its worth. The porter knew his duty better; he was not to be bought or wheedled into such an abuse of trust. Gilead congratulated him, and went out into the night. Its familiar commonplaces both comforted and jarred upon him. He felt like a convalescent from some near-mortal illness, welcoming back life while half-regretting his balked escape from it. But the direction he instinctively took brought solace to him with every step. It was over Miss Halifax’s desk that the apparition had bent; it was to Miss Halifax that he turned for reassurance and explanation. Would she have gone to bed? He put on agitated pace with the thought. The flat was close by, and he was not long in reaching it. Finding the lift-porter absent, he ran up the stairs in his impatience, and came upon the gentleman himself in whispering colloquy with the maid at the young lady’s door. The two were full of confusion; he put it and them pleasantly by, intimating that he would announce himself. A sound of music came from the drawing-room, and, without ceremony in his urgency, he opened the door softly and entered. Miss Halifax was seated at the piano, and over her, his arm familiarly wreathed about her neck, stood Herbert Nestle. They both started, and, turning on the instant, the girl rose to her feet. “Mr Balm!” she whispered. The colour fled from her face as he looked at her; the secretary stood, as he had stepped suddenly back, hanging his head sheepishly. Without a moment’s hesitation, and with a smile on his lips, Gilead shut the door and hurried forward. “O! you must forgive me,” he said. “It is quite undesigned--quite. But, being so, let us all congratulate ourselves on this accident. I have long suspected this, believe me, and I wish you both happiness with all my heart. But why would you never tell me? Be assured I should have honoured and rejoiced in the confidence.”