best of my belief she took all her luggage with her."

In a moment the man came back.

"Yes, sir, she and her maid and all her luggage left about two o'clock.
There were two cars; one was brought by a gentleman."

Bobby pulled himself together.

"Ah! Mr. Alistair Ramsey, I suppose?" He tried to put indifference into
his voice.

"Yes, sir, I think it was Mr. Alistair Ramsey."

Bobby walked out of the hotel. "Oh, damn him, damn him, damn him!" he
muttered as he threw himself into a cab.

"Go to Down Street."

Arrived at his rooms, Bobby cast his poor flowers into a corner, and,
flinging himself on to a sofa, buried his face in his hands. What was the
meaning of it, and how could she be so cruel as to play the same trick on
him again? What was the object of telling him to come and see her? It
would have been by far kinder to ignore him when she saw him at the
Savoy. And yet even now Bobby was not resentful. He was bewildered,
but far more was he humiliated at the thought of Ramsey's triumph. There
must surely be some explanation. She had greeted him so kindly; she had
shown such evident pleasure at seeing him again. Why should she have
acted that part? There was no object in it. Something must have happened,
something quite outside the range of ordinary events. As he had done a