It was the taxi-driver who first broke the silence. At the bottom of Bond Street he pulled up, and, projecting his head round the side of the cab, signified his desire to speak with us. Mechanically I pulled down the window. "The 'Ouse of Commons, guv'nor?" he inquired. "No," I said dully; "Cynthia's flat." He stared at me, and I recollected myself. "Manor Court, Marylebone Road," I observed harshly. He spun round and we retraced our way up Bond Street. Just as we were emerging from the bottom of Harley Street, Bruce leaned across and laid his hand on my arm. "After I've seen Cynthia," he said brokenly, "I shall unwish that first wish." I nodded. The taxi drew up at the gate of Manor Court and we got out. The driver looked at us with interest. "Just in time, I was," he observed; "they'd 'ave 'ad you in another minit." Bruce handed him half a sovereign. "Thank ye, sir," he said, "thank ye." Then he paused. "I knows wot them suffrinjettes wants," he added, "and if I 'ad my way I'd give it 'em." With this dark saying he slipped in his clutch and left us. Side by side we walked up the gravelled drive and stepped in through the main entrance. Cynthia's flat is on the ground floor on the right-hand side, the one with the green door and the copper knocker. Bruce laid his hand on the latter, and then hesitated. "Go on," I said bitterly. "Think what we've been through." His face hardened and he gave two sharp rattats. A minute's pause, a sound of footsteps, and then the door swung open. A pretty, dark girl in the dress of a parlourmaid was standing before us. Bruce cleared his throat. "Is Miss West at home?" he asked huskily. She looked at him curiously for a moment without replying, then suddenly she said: "Yes, sir," and stepped back from the door. We followed her into the hall, laying our hats and sticks on the table inside. Bruce's hands were shaking like leaves. Without looking at us the girl led the way down the passage and opened a door on the left-hand side. "Will you please come in here, sir?" she said gently. Bruce, who was about two paces ahead of me, stepped in first. In a flash the girl had followed him, slamming the door in my face with a bang that echoed through the flat. I pulled up short, and as I did so there came a stifled cry from Bruce: "Help, help, Bridges, help!" Flinging open the door again, I rushed in. As far as I could see, Bruce and the housemaid were engaged in a rather strenuous waltz. They were swaying down the room wreathed in each other's arms, splendidly regardless of the furniture. Even as I entered, they fetched up against the end of the sofa, and collapsed into a tangled heap.