He went without a word. When he returned the vestibule was deserted.
With a swift intuition of the truth he opened the door and rushed out
into the street. She was not there, nor the cabman whom he had
instructed to wait for them. She had slipped away, as she intended to
do, and the kiss she had given him had been a farewell. He was left
standing looking stupidly up and down the street, with her gloves in
his hand and her purse, as he now remembered, in his pocket. Well, he
could advertise that the next morning, in such a way that she could
reclaim it without seeing him again if she wished. He could even seal
it in an envelope and leave it at the _Herald_ office, to be given to
any one who would describe it. He walked slowly down Broadway and
turned into the side street which held the house and the unattractive
hall bedroom he called home. He felt "let down," as he would have put
it, and horribly lonely and depressed. She was such a good sort, he
reflected, and it was such a big pity she wouldn't let him see her
again. He knew somehow that he never would. She was not a woman that
changed her mind about things. Jove! but the whole experience had been
interesting; and that kiss--that kiss he had been cad enough to
misunderstand for an instant. ... The deepest blush of the day
scorched his face as he recalled it.

Miss Stansbury arrived at the front entrance of her hotel at the same
moment, and tersely instructed the driver to collect his fare at the
desk. She entered the hall with him, and walked indifferently past the
night clerk, answering with a nod the tacit question of that youth as
he glanced from her to the cabman. She was not unconscious of the
suppressed excitement in his manner nor of the elevator boy's relief
as he joyfully greeted her appearance in his car. What did it matter?
What did anything matter now? Her day was over.