Judith went home at once, and all through the morning, she saw to it that she was not very far from the telephone. Every time it rang her heart pounded a little harder, and each time that the call was not what she hoped it would be, disappointment became a little more keen, the fear of failure a little more pronounced. The maid who served luncheon reported to the kitchen that her mistress had tasted nothing. "What did I tell ye?" said the cook with profound mysteriousness, and even the chauffeur's boy, who could not recall that she had told anything, was silenced. "There's things goin' on in this house," she declared impressively, when she observed that the silence about her was respectful, "as how none of ye understand." There was no denial. At about three o'clock, Judith heard the first news. "The postmark, of course, told us the general locality," said the placid voice over the telephone, speaking very slowly and distinctly. "I have just heard from one of my operatives who has been investigating the drug-stores in the neighbourhood, that he expects to locate a doctor at any time, who will be able to supply the rest of the information we seek. It may be an hour--perhaps two--perhaps not to-day. But I think I can assure you of ultimate success." Judith thanked him so calmly that the detective wondered. Had he seen the expression of her face as she hung up the receiver, he would have wondered still more. But as three o'clock merged into four, and four rolled away into five, with no further report, Judith's restlessness gave place to resignation. And when, just as it was turning dark, the maid announced Imrie, she was able to welcome him as unaffectedly as if not a care clouded her sky. It was merely a reaction, of course, quite inevitable after the strain of anxiety and suspense under which she had laboured for days: but he was not aware of that. All he knew was that Judith was again the person he had known and loved so long ago. Back upon him rushed the passion which had been quiescent before her detached indifference. As she stood before him, her eyes sparkling, her teeth gleaming, in smiles the like of which he had not seen, it seemed, since they were children together, all the hopes and dreams, so long dormant, sprang to his lips. "Ah, Judith, girl!" he cried, as he jumped to his feet and faced her. "It's got to come out again. I can't help it--I don't _want_ to help it. I..." A look of something akin to terror flashed into Judith's eyes. "Don't, Arnold--please--you mustn't..." She drew away, almost as if she feared him. The movement, slight though it was, hurt him infinitely. "I suppose it's foolish," he said wistfully. "You made that pretty clear once. But I can't help thinking that things are different now. I'm not better than I was then--but I know myself better. I was a prig--full of pride--conceited. At least I'm not that any more. I'm only..." Suddenly he stopped and eyed her narrowly.