Gano went over to the window and looked out with an ironic consciousness that, even in the face of such news, he was scarcely less concerned than Driscoll for the coming of that enigmatic woman across the lamplit, reeking court. The drizzle had turned into long gray rods of rain; they streaked the gaslight and pricked the shallow pools unceasingly. And he had all that money! and it was just as he had always known it would be. The essentials of existence were unchanged. Was she never coming? It's the child surviving somewhere in most men, he argued with himself, that gives a woman like that a charm beyond beauty. But she's beautiful, too, he protested silently. Aloud he said: "No, I don't see her." "Look here, Gano; do me a favor, old man! Go and fetch her." "Oh, I hardly think--" "I tell you I must see her! Only for five minutes. Tell her that. If I don't see her, I'll have a hell of a night. I'd do as much for you, Gano." "Oh, all right." He turned on his heel. "Hold on! you don't know where she lives." Gano knew perfectly, but he said, "Oh-h." "Going off like that without--you're full of your millions! Small blame--small blame!" Driscoll wrote down the address and handed it to his friend. "Bring her back with you, if you can; but it'll do if she's here by ten." Outside the court Gano hailed a _fiacre_ and drove barely five minutes before he was set down at a door in a tenement not conspicuously different from his own. A shabby man with long hair, wearing a velveteen jacket, had just stopped, closed his dripping umbrella, and rung. When the door opened he passed in without question. "Madame Burne?" asked Gano. "Au quatrième. Encore de la boue dans mon escalier!" muttered the _concierge_. "Faudra qu'elle s'en aille à la fin."