She began to walk up and down the room. Half-past one that night was the hour of her escape, and somehow between now and then she must get the money. Perhaps by some chance he had left it in his room? Forgotten in a moment of carelessness in the pocket of the coat he had changed when they arrived that afternoon? It was not likely, for he was, she had noticed, of an extreme neatness and care about all such things. He never forgot. He never mislaid. Still--there was the chance. She opened the door again, this time in deadly fear, for perhaps he would be coming back, not choosing after all to stay out there having supper. There was no one in the passage. His room, she knew, was farther down; she had seen him going into it, four doors down on the same side as hers. She went out and stood a moment listening, then began to walk along towards it with an air of unconcern as though rightfully going down the corridor till she came to his door; then with her heart in her mouth she bolted in. The lights from the street and the houses opposite shone in through the unshuttered window, and she could see into every corner of the shabby hôtel bedroom, a reproduction of the one she was in herself, trailed over dingily by traces of hundreds of commercial travellers and smelling memorially, as hers did, too, of their smoke and their pomades. She was hot and cold with fear; guilty as a thief. His coat hung behind the door. She ran her trembling fingers over it. Not a thing in any of his pockets. Nowhere anything that she could see. His unpacking had been done with orderliness itself. Of course he would not forget his pocket-book. With a gasp that was almost relief she slipped out of the room, shut the door quickly behind her, and assuming what she tried to hope was an unconcerned swagger, a sort of "I am-as-good-as-you-are" air for the impressing of any one she might meet, walked down the passage again. Just as she reached her door Ingram appeared, hurrying up the stairs two steps at a time. She clutched hold of the handle of her door, suddenly unable to stand. "I--I--" she began. But he did not seem surprised to see her there; he was intent on something else. "Just think," he said, coming quickly towards her. "I left my pocket-book in my room, full of notes. The whole afternoon lying in the drawer of the table. I wonder--" He hurried past her almost at a run. She got into her room somehow, feeling Heaven had forsaken her. After a minute or two she heard him coming along again. He stopped at her door and called to her softly: "It's all right. It was still there. Wasn't it lucky?" "Very," said Ingeborg; but so faintly that he did not hear. "Good night, my Little One," she heard him say. "Now I'm going out to get that supper." "Good night," said Ingeborg, again so faintly that he heard nothing; and after a pause of listening he went away.