He stopped on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-third Street, half-way down the hill, and looked at his watch. It was nearly six. He did not wish to go back to his rooms; he had no engagement that evening. As he stood irresolute, he took off his hat to Mrs. Gower, who passed by in her carriage. Then he resolved to go down to his office and work that evening, as was his habit when he wished to banish from his mind a too persistent thought. He walked back through the cross-street, to get the railway on Sixth Avenue, and still thinking how Miss Thomas was probably crying over his rudeness, locked in her own room. How _could_ he have done it! As he approached her house, he felt almost tempted to go in again; but the front door opened slowly, and, after a momentary pause, he saw Ten Eyck come out, walk down the steps and rapidly away. Vane grew very angry with himself and her; until he reflected that she could not possibly have known that Ten Eyck was coming that afternoon. And, indeed, he probably had not been let in. None the less did Vane work savagely through the evening, taking a lonely dinner at the "down-town" Delmonico's. At about midnight he left his office and walked all the way up to his room, smoking, and thinking what he could do to win Miss Thomas's forgiveness. The gas was burning low in his study, and he saw a square white packet among the letters lying on his table. He felt that shuddering weakness in the loins, as if all within were turned to water, which he had learned to recognize as the work of that first apprehension of a serious misfortune which comes a moment before the mind has fully grasped it. He sank upon the sofa with a long breath, and looked at the letter silently for several minutes. It was a neat note, beautifully sealed and delicately addressed; like all her notes, bearing no evidence of a servant's dirty pocket. He opened it, fearing to find in it the lace handkerchief without a word; but no, there was a note with it: "MY DEAR MR. VANE-- "I send you back your handkerchief. It is still a little burned; but perhaps you can make some use of it. I ought to have returned it sooner, but was having it mended. "Sincerely yours, "WINIFRED THOMAS." So! thought Vane; it was all over now. He had bungled it shamefully. XIII. HE went to sleep as soon as he could--which was not very soon; and woke up, with a sob, from a dream in which they were both very miserable. It was an hour earlier than his usual time for rising, and, as he went into the park, the birds were singing quite as they might have sung in the country. On considering her note critically, he did not think it so hopeless as it had seemed in the night. And again he repaired to his office. Business was very good at this time, and Vane was rapidly becoming rich.