him, and thereby he was repaid for the devotion of his life. He had
no ambitions. Madeline had been his great ambition; and when that had
fallen, all the others had fallen with it, even to the dust. He simply
did his duty, whatever it might be, as well as in him lay, without fear
of blame or hope of praise--shunning men, and never, if he could avoid
it, speaking to a woman, content to earn his livelihood, and for the
rest rendered colourless by his secret and pathetic passion.

And now it appeared that Madeline was a widow, which meant--and his
heart beat fast at the thought--that she was a free woman. Madeline was
a free woman, and he was within a few minutes' walk of her. No thousands
of miles of ocean rolled between them now. He rose, went to the table,
and consulted a Red book that lay on it. There was the address--a house
in Grosvenor Street. Overcome by an uncontrollable impulse, he went out
of the room. Going to his own he found his mackintosh and a round hat,
and softly left the house. It was then past two in the morning, pouring
with rain, and blowing hard.

He had been a little in London as a lad and remembered the main
thoroughfares, so had no great difficulty in finding his way up
Piccadilly till he came to Park Lane, into which the Red book told him
Grosvenor Square opened. But to find Grosvenor Street itself was a more
difficult matter, and at such a time on such a night there was naturally
nobody to ask--least of all a policeman. At last he found it, and
hurried on down the street with a quickening pulse. What he was hurrying
to he could not tell, but that over-mastering impulse forced him on
quicker and quicker yet.

Suddenly he halted, and examined the number of one of the houses by the
faint and struggling light from the nearest lamp. It was _her_ house;