I heard Simes saluting her a moment later, then the outer door closed, and I sat motionless, staring before me fixedly. I had, during that afternoon, awakened to the fact that I loved her; but it was, alas! too late. Another had supplanted me in her affections. She had left me hopeless, crushed, grief-stricken, and desolate. Next day passed drearily, but on the next I sent Simes along to Madame Gabrielle's with a note in which I asked Muriel to see me again, making an appointment to meet her at Frascati's that evening. "Let me see you once more," I wrote, "if for the last time. Do not refuse me, for I think always of you." In half an hour my man returned, and by his face I knew that something unusual had occurred. He had my note still in his hand. "Well," I said inquiringly, "have you brought an answer?" "Miss Moore is no longer there, sir," he answered, handing me back the note. "Not there?" I exclaimed, surprised. "No, sir. I saw the head saleswoman, and she told me that the young lady was not now in their employ." "Not in their employ?" I echoed, starting up. "Has she left?" "It appears, sir, that on Sunday night she broke one of the rules, which says that no assistant may be out after eleven o'clock. She arrived at midnight, and was yesterday morning instantly dismissed. They told me that she took her belongings and went away without scarcely uttering a word except to complain of the extremely harsh treatment she had received. The manager of the firm was, however, inexorable, for it appears that other assistants had constantly been breaking the rule, and only a week ago a serious warning was posted up in the dining-room. Miss Moore was therefore dismissed as an example to the others." "It's infamous!" I cried. "Then no one knows where she now is?" "No, sir. I made inquiries, but no one could tell me where I might probably find her. She was, they say, heartbroken at this treatment." I said nothing, but taking the note, slowly tore it into tiny fragments. The woman I loved so well was now cast upon the pitiless world of London, without employment, without friends, and probably without money. Yet where to look for her I knew not. By her manner when we had parted, I felt confident that her natural pride would not allow her to seek my assistance. She would, I knew, suffer in silence alone rather than allow me to help her. When I thought of the harshness of this firm she had served so diligently and well, I grew furious. It was unjust to discharge a girl instantly and cast her on the world in that manner. It was infamous. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. JACK YELVERTON'S CONFESSION.