By his side the girl moved uneasily. "Who was that man?" she inquired.

Kirkwood sought her eyes, and found them wholly ingenuous. It seemed
that Calendar had not taken her into his confidence, after all. She was,
therefore, in no way implicated in her father's affairs. Inexplicably the
young man's heart felt lighter. "A mistake; the fellow took me for some one
he knew," he told her carelessly.

The assurance satisfied her. She rested quietly, wrapped up in personal
concerns. Her companion pensively contemplated an infinity of arid and
hansom-less to-morrows. About them the city throbbed in a web of misty
twilight, the humid farewell of a dismal day. In the air a faint haze swam,
rendering the distances opalescent. Athwart the western sky the after-glow
of a drenched sunset lay like a wash of rose-madder. Piccadilly's asphalt
shone like watered silk, black and lustrous, reflecting a myriad lights in
vibrant ribbons of party-colored radiance. On every hand cab-lamps danced
like fire-flies; the rumble of wheels blended with the hollow pounding
of uncounted hoofs, merging insensibly into the deep and solemn roar of
London-town.

Suddenly Kirkwood was recalled to a sense of duty by a glimpse of Hyde Park
Corner. He turned to the girl. "I didn't know where you wished to go--?"

She seemed to realize his meaning with surprise, as one, whose thoughts
have strayed afar, recalled to an imperative world.

"Oh, did I forget? Tell him please to drive to Number Nine, Frognall
Street, Bloomsbury."

Kirkwood poked his cane through the trap, repeating the address. The