I passed and repassed the house. A light was burning in the window of an upper room. I wondered if the room was hers. I would have given a good deal for the courage to inquire, but my nervous system was disorganised. I was as afraid of being seen as if I had been there for an improper purpose. When any one came into the street from either direction I quickened my pace and almost bolted. Once, when some one raised a corner of a blind, with the apparent intention of peeping out into the street, I fairly took to my heels and ran. On one point I derived some negative satisfaction--so far as I could judge, the house was not being watched by the police. The lady was free to come or go. I was the only person who was taking an obvious interest in her proceedings. Perhaps that was in some degree owing to the weather, which was bad, even for London. There was a delightful fog, which, for some inscrutable reason, was seemingly not at all affected by a cutting east wind; and a filthy rain. I had on an overcoat; but was conscious that I was not getting drier as the night wore on. What I was waiting for I could not have told myself, until, towards midnight, a hansom dashed into the street, in which, as it passed, I saw the face of Miss Adair. I was after it like a flash, catching it just as it reached the door of No. 22. “Miss Adair!” I cried, as the lady was preparing to descend into the mud and rain. “Good gracious, Mr. Ferguson, is that you? Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?” “I--I thought I’d call and inquire how--how Miss Moore was getting on.” “Well, and have you called?” “No, I--I thought I’d wait till you came home from the theatre and--and ask you.” From her post of vantage in the cab Miss Adair looked me up and down, perceiving that I was neither so well groomed nor so dry as I might have been. “And, pray, how long have you been waiting for me to come home from the theatre?” “Oh, some--some few minutes.” “A good few minutes, I should imagine. And where have you been waiting?” “Oh, I--I’ve been hanging about.” “In the mud, I should say, from the look of you. You are a disreputable object. So I cannot but hope that you’ve enjoyed your vigil. I may tell you, for your satisfaction, that when I left home Miss Moore was ill.” “Ill! Not--not really ill?” “Really ill. This time there’s not a doubt about it. She’s in bed. Dr. Hume says that it’s the result of the breakdown from the overstrain which might have been naturally expected.” “Hume! Has Hume been here?” “Certainly. And another medical man.” “But--what did Hume want?” “My good sir! Dr. Hume’s a doctor; and a very clever one.” “Yes; but only in special cases. This sort of thing is not his line.” “I think you are mistaken. I should say that everything was in his line. Besides, he is a very old and a very intimate friend of Miss Moore’s.” “Oh--I--I wasn’t aware that he was quite--quite so intimate as that.”