know."

The official stuck out a finger.

"Round the corner--first to your right--second on the left," he said
automatically. "You'll find plenty of room--nothing much doing there
this morning."

He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless
perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors.

"Upon my honour!" he muttered. "Upon my honour, I really don't know
what I've come up here for. I've no business here."

Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton.
The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of
papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who
were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And
Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which
of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her
burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton
with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl
with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned
upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a
hope of seeing this girl again--why, he could not then think.

Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted
his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a
question.