As Betty crossed the twilit court and entered the deeper gloom of the house, she found Madelaine, a lean shadow in the dusk, fumbling with the latch on the outer door of the widow Snacheur’s apartments. “Is Mademoiselle the American at home, Madelaine?” she asked the girl. Madelaine left the door, walked out into the courtyard and looked up. “Madame, there is a candle burning on the sixth floor,” she called across the court. She came to Betty: “And there is a shadow cast. Mademoiselle the American must be at home,” she added; and got to fumbling with the latch of the door again. “Can’t you unlock it, Madelaine?” Betty asked the girl. “Shall I hold your bottle? Your hands will be free.” “Thank you, madame, no--you are very kind. The widow will not have the lock mended--so I have to tie it with string from the inside--when I go out.” Betty stood on one side to let a young workman go by. He was a pasty-faced slouching young fellow of powerful loose build; he had come down the stair with curious stealthy step; and he took off his hat clumsily as he passed. Madelaine laughed as the awkward youth slouched out into the court: “That dirty fool Hiéne wants to be my lover,” she said--“he pesters me--but I am not going to love workmen--I am going to be driven in carriages.” “Hush, Madelaine--you must not say such things.” Madelaine gave her good-night, laughter in her eyes, and with the grace of coming womanhood took herself off airily towards the city’s lights--a promise of lithe beauty in her walk for all her bedraggled rags. Moll Davenant had heard Betty’s light step upon the stair; she opened the door for her to enter as Betty reached the landing. When she had shut it, the two girls embraced each other. “Come, Moll--and sit on the bed; and we’ll gossip.” Moll suffered herself to be led to the sommier, and they sat down upon the snowy whiteness of it. Moll was watching Betty’s face hungrily. “Moll,” said Betty--“I have been to look for Eustace Lovegood--ah, such a mean shabby little hotel it was, poor fellow! but he was gone. The waiter said he went back to England yesterday--after waiting restlessly about the place for a letter that did not come.... I wish Eustace would spend a little money on himself instead of giving it to every pitiful person that cries out to him.” Moll was seized with a violent fit of coughing. She slipped on to the floor, buried her face in Betty’s lap, and sobbed miserably. Betty stayed with her until far into the night--until the heart-rent girl slept peacefully upon the white bed. She covered the poor sleeping soul with her meagre blankets.... As she rose to leave, her glance fell on a new book which lay beside the lamp. It was a volume of erotic verse. She opened it and found an inscription on the fly-leaf from Aubrey. Betty sighed--put the lamp low--and slipped on tip-toe from the room. * * * * *