'Hm!' mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. 'Hm! Certainly aren't here. Take a look though.' With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, peering about for the electric switch. He hadn't lived here long enough to know the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox's boarding-house. A voice--Humphrey's--said:-- 'Don't turn the light on.' Then, 'Is it you, Hen?' There they were--over in the farther window-seat--sitting very still, huddled together--a mere faint shape against the dim outside light. He felt his way around the centre table, toward them. 'Looking for you,' he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing in his temples. And he was curiously breathless. He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn't thought of this; had just rushed over here, headlong. 'I suppose it's pretty late,' said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality in her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent. 'Well'--Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that now and then crept into it--'anything special, Hen? Here we are!' Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous little pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands murdering lovers; dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, high-ceiled court-rooms. Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand. Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about the half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, brisk way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under her very quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to protect from the world and give toys to. Henry, to his own amazement--and chagrin--covered his face and sobbed. 'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?' The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding her eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:-- 'Has my husband come home?' Henry nodded. 'Where's Corinne?' 'She--she's waiting on the corner, in case you.... Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug. 'Did he--did he see either of you?' Henry shook his head. Mildred pressed a finger to her lips. 'We mustn't leave Corinne waiting out there,' she said. Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre gaze settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she raised her head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the question:-- 'Stay here?'