into even greater uncertainty as to the man's real character, and it
is not unlikely that she would have taken his mysterious retreat to be
another link in the chain of evidence against him which already seemed
so convincing. She might naturally have wondered, too, what he had
felt when he had seen that board beside the door, and she could hardly
have believed that he had gone in without so much as glancing at the
yellowish letters that formed the name of Bamberger.

But he seemed quite at home where he was, and not at all uncomfortable
as he sat before the fire, watching the spout of the kettle, his
elbows on the arms of the easy-chair and his hands raised before him,
with the finger-tips pressed against each other, in the attitude
which, with most men, means that they are considering the two sides of
a question that is interesting without being very important.

Perhaps a thoughtful observer would have noticed at once that there
had been no letters waiting for him when he had arrived, and would
have inferred either that he did not mean to stay at the rooms
twenty-four hours, or that, if he did, he had not chosen to let any
one know where he was.

Presently it occurred to him that there was no longer any light in
the room except from the fire, and he rose and lit the gas. The
incandescent light sent a raw glare into the farthest corners of the
large room, and just then a tiny wreath of white steam issued from the
spout of the kettle. This did not escape Mr. Van Torp's watchful eye,
but instead of making tea at once he looked at his watch, after which
he crossed the room to the window and stood thoughtfully gazing
through the panes at the fast disappearing outlines of the roofs and
chimney-pots which made up the view when there was daylight outside.