town. Londoners were in the country, staring, round-eyed, on fields and
woods. The policemen looked dull and heavy, as if never again would any
one be criminal, and as if they had come to know it. Bits of paper blew
aimlessly about, wafted by a little, feverish breeze, which rose in
spasms and died away. An old man, with a head that was strangely bald,
stared out from a club window, rubbed his enquiring nose, looked back
into the room behind him and then stared out again. An organ played "The
Manola," resuscitated from a silence of many years.

London was at its summer saddest.

Could Mrs. Chepstow be in it? Soon Isaacson knew. In the entrance hall
of the Savoy, where large and lonely porters were dozing, he learnt that
she was at home. So be it. He stepped into the lift, and presently
followed a servant to her door. The servant tapped. There was no answer.
He tapped again more loudly, while Isaacson waited behind him.

"Come in!" called out a voice.

The servant opened the door, announcing:

"Doctor Meyer Isaacson."

Mrs. Chepstow had perhaps been sitting on her balcony, for when Isaacson
went in she was in the opening of a window space, standing close to a
writing-table, which had its drawers facing the window. Behind her, on
the balcony, there was a small arm-chair.

"Doctor Meyer Isaacson!" she said, with an intonation of surprise.