Presently he went up to his room to get a handkerchief, and on his return to the landing he noticed that Yvonne’s bedroom door was ajar. She was stirring, evidently. He knocked gently and called her name. There was no reply. Perhaps she was still sleeping, he thought; but it was odd that her door should be open. He returned to the sitting-room, wandered about nervously, looked out of the window into the dismal street. The pavement was wet, people were hurrying by with umbrellas up, the capes of drivers gleamed miserably in the misty air. He turned away and put some coals on a sulky fire, and again took up the paper. But an undefined feeling of uneasiness began to creep over him. It was long past nine o’clock. He went again and knocked at Yvonne’s door. It opened a little wider and he saw by the light in the room that the blind had been drawn up. He called her in loud tones. His voice seemed to fall in a void. Agitated, he ventured to take a swift glance into the room. The bed was empty. There was no Yvonne. He went back and rang the bell violently. After a short interval Sarah appeared, leisurely bringing in the breakfast-tray. “Where is Madame Latour?” asked Joyce. “Oh, she went out early, and said you weren’t to wait breakfast for her.” “At what time did she go out?” “Shortly after eight.” “Thank you,” said Joyce. “I think she was took ill, and was going to see a doctor,” said Sarah, unloading the tray noisily. “Did Madame Latour tell you so?” “No. But she was looking so bad I was frightened to see her.” “Very well,” said Joyce, not wishing to show the servant his agitation. “She will be back soon. Yes, you can leave the breakfast.” Sarah quitted the room with her heavy, scuffling step. Joyce remained by the fire tugging at his moustache, his mind filled with nameless anxieties. The presentiment of ill grew in intensity. Why had Yvonne left the house at that early hour? Sarah’s suggestion was manifestly absurd. If Yvonne had been poorly, she would have sent for a doctor. Yet the servant’s last remark frightened him. He remembered Yvonne’s pallor of the night before. A dreadful surmise began to dawn upon him. Had he been blind, all the way through, and condemned her to a fate impossible to bear? Once, in South Africa, he had seen an innocent man sentenced to death. The picture of the man’s face in its wistful despair rose before him. It was terribly like Yvonne’s. Had she, then, pronounced sentence on herself? He walked to and fro in feverish helplessness, his heart weighed down by the new load. The cheap American clock on the mantel-piece struck ten. There came, soon after, a knock at the door. Joyce sprang to open it. But it was only the boy from the shop wanting to know if any one was coming down. Joyce put his hand to his forehead. He had entirely forgotten Mr. Runcle’s absence and his own consequent responsibility.