Suddenly, in the midst of his work, a flood of light broke in upon him. He thought that, if the letter which he had written to Violet, telling her that he had the diary, had already fallen into Van Hupfeldt's hands, then Van Hupfeldt knew that he had the diary; in which case, it was Van Hupfeldt who had put back the clock's hand in the farmhouse at Pangley! Van Hupfeldt knew all the time that David was shadowing him, had put back the clock, and now held the diary, for which both he and David would have given all that they were worth, and all is everything, whether ten pounds or a million. "Is that it?" thought David to himself. "Oh, is that it? All right, let it be like that." He lost not two minutes in thought, but with a lowering brow went out into the streets, high-strung, his fingers cramped together. An hour before this he had said to himself that the hour was too late for action. Now, an hour later, such a thought did not occur to him in the high pitch of his soul. That night, and not any other night or day, he would have it out with Van Hupfeldt. He jumped into a cab, and drove to the flat in King-St., Chelsea. "But what on earth can the man mean," said Miss L'Estrange, peeping through the slit of her slightly-opened door, "coming to a lady's flat at this hour of the morning?" In reality it was about half-past twelve. "No, it's no use talking," said David, "you must let me in. I know you have a right good heart, and I rely upon its action when I tell you that it is a matter of life and death this time." "But I'm alone." "So much the better." "Well, I like your cheek!" "You like the whole of me; so you may as well own up to it, and be done." "Rats! You only come here when you want something done. It isn't me you come to see." "I'll come to see you some other time. Just throw something on, and let me in." "'Throw something on,' indeed! I'll throw something on you, and that'll be hot water, the next time you come bothering about at this hour. Oh, well, never mind; you're not a bad sort. Come in." The door opened, Miss L'Estrange fled, and David went into the drawing-room, where he waited some minutes till she reappeared, looking fresh and washed from the night's stage-paint, with something voluminous wrapped about her. "Now, what is it?" said she. "Straight to the point--that's me." "You must give me Strauss's address," said David. "That I sha'n't," said she. "What do you take me for? I promised the man that I wouldn't. I have told you once that he isn't a thousand miles from Piccadilly, and that's about all you'll get from me."