Now, with patience unruffled, since he was nothing keen for the evening's enjoyment, Maitland made profit of the interval to wander through his rooms, lighting the gas here and there and noting that all was as it should be, as it had been left--save that every article of furniture and bric-à-brac seemed to be sadly in want of a thorough dusting. In the end he brought up in the room that served him as study and lounge,--the drawing-room of the flat, as planned in the forgotten architect's scheme,--a large and well-lighted apartment overlooking the street. Here, pausing beneath the chandelier, he looked about him for a moment, determining that, as elsewhere, all things were in order--but grey with dust. Finding the atmosphere heavy, stale, and oppressive, Maitland moved over to the windows and threw them open. A gush of warm air, humid and redolent of the streets, invaded the room, together with the roar of traffic from its near-by arteries. Maitland rested his elbows on the sill and leaned out, staring absently into the night; for by now it was quite dark. Without concern, he realized that he would be late at dinner. No matter; he would as willingly miss it altogether. For the time being he was absorbed in vain speculations about an unknown woman whose sole claim upon his consideration lay in a certain but immaterial glamour of mystery. Had she, or had she not, been in the house? And, if the true answer were in the affirmative: to what end, upon what errand? His eyes focused insensibly upon a void of darkness beneath him,--night made visible by street lamps; and he found himself suddenly and acutely sensible of the wonder and mystery of the City: the City whose secret life ran fluent upon the hot, hard pavements below, whose voice throbbed, sibilant, vague, strident, inarticulate, upon the night air; the City of which he was a part equally with the girl in grey, whom he had never before seen, and in all likelihood was never to see again, though the two of them were to work out their destinies within the bounds of Manhattan Island. And yet.... "It would be strange," said Maitland thoughtfully, "if...." He shook his head, smiling. "'_Two shall be born,_'" quoted Mad Maitland sentimentally,-- "'_Two shall be born the whole wide world apart--_'" A piano organ, having maliciously sneaked up beneath his window, drove him indoors with a crash of metallic melody. As he dropped the curtains his eye was arrested by a gleam of white upon his desk,--a letter placed there, doubtless, by O'Hagan in Maitland's absence. At the same time, a splashing and gurgling of water from the direction of the bath-room informed him that the janitor-valet was even then preparing his bath. But that could wait.