So David, having dressed and gone out, wandered into another restaurant than that which he was aiming for; dawdled over the meal until the first act of the play which he meant to see must have been ended; and decided then upon a music-hall; finally, he strolled back toward Eddystone Mansions as early as eleven. The elevator, placed in the center of the building, ran from the basement floor; those who used it had to descend a few steps from the entrance and advance along a passage. Harcourt felt unaccountably tired--there is a strain of life in London as on the tops of mountains--so he chose the lift in preference to the stairs. The hall-porter, who sat within the lift, pondering the entries for the Spring Handicaps, recognized him, and jumped up with a salute. "Good-evenin', sir! Fine, frosty night, sir," said he. They began to ascend. A thought occurred to David. "What was the name of the lady who occupied No. 7?" he asked. "Miss Ermyn L'Estrange, sir," was the instant answer. Even in the wilds of Wyoming one grasps the significance of certain classes of names. For instance, not even the rawest tenderfoot would expect "One-eyed Pete" to turn out to be a parson. "I mean the lady who died here," said David. The porter stopped the lift. "Your floor, sir," he said. "I've only bin in these 'ere flats a matter o' two months, sir." "Good egg!" cried David. "Have a cigar, porter. You are a man to be depended on. But surely there is no harm in telling me the poor girl's name. It must have appeared in all the newspapers." The attendant tickled his head underneath his hat. The new tenant of No. 7 seemed a nice gentleman, anyhow. He looked up and down the stairs, of which two sections were visible from the landing where they stood. "I 'ave 'eard," said he, "that a young lydy used ter live 'ere of the nyme of Miss Gwendoline Barnes." "Ah, that sounds more like it. Good-night." "Good-night, sir." Harcourt, fumbling over the intricacies of the lock, heard the rattle of the lift as it reached the basement. On his landing were two doors, his own and that of No. 8; and light shone from his neighbor's dwelling. That was companionable. The stairs, too, were well lighted. At last he gave the key the right pressure, and the latch yielded. He passed within and closed the door noiselessly. The electric switch governing the hall-lamp was on the wall beyond the short entrance-passage. He removed his overcoat and hat in the semi-darkness; the sheen coming through the corrugated-glass panels of the outer door did not so much as cast a shadow.