found employment; but from Camden Town he held aloof.

One morning there arrived for him a postcard on which was scribbled:
"We are going to the Savoy on Saturday night. Gallery." No
signature, no address; but of course the writer must be Patty
Ringrose. Mentally, he thanked her with much fervour. And on the
stated evening, nearly an hour before the opening of the doors, he
climbed the stone steps leading to the gallery entrance of the Savoy
Theatre. At the summit two or three persons were already waiting--
strangers to him. He leaned against the wall, and read an evening
paper. At every sound of approaching feet his eyes watched with
covert eagerness. Presently he heard a laugh, echoing from below,
and recognised Patty's voice; then Miss Ringrose appeared round the
winding in the staircase, and was followed by Eve Madeley. Patty
glanced up, and smiled consciously as she discovered the face she
had expected to see; but Eve remained for some minutes unaware of
her acquaintance's proximity. Scrutinising her appearance, as he
could at his ease, Hilliard thought she looked far from well: she
had a tired, dispirited expression, and paid no heed to the people
about her. Her dress was much plainer than that she wore a month
ago.

He saw Patty whispering to her companion, and, as a result, Eve's
eyes turned in his direction. He met her look, and had no difficulty
in making his way down two or three steps, to join her. The
reception she gave him was one of civil indifference. Hilliard made
no remark on what seemed the chance of their encounter, nor did he
speak of her absence from London; they talked, as far as talk was
possible under the circumstances, of theatrical and kindred
subjects. He could not perceive that the girl was either glad or