A fortnight after his first visit Mr. Scawthorne again presented
himself, polite, smiling, perhaps rather more familiar. He stayed
talking for nearly an hour, chiefly of the theatre. Casually he
mentioned that Grace Rudd had got her engagement--only a little part in
a farce. Suppose Clara came to see her play some evening? Might he take
her? He could at any time have places in the dress-circle.

Clara accepted the invitation. She did so without consulting Mrs.
Tubbs, and when it became necessary to ask for the evening's freedom,
difficulties were made. 'Very well,' said Clara, in a tone she had
never yet used to her employer, 'then I shall leave you.' She spoke
without a moment's reflection; something independent of her will seemed
to direct her in speech and act. Mrs. Tubbs yielded.

Clara had not yet been able to obtain the dress she wished for. Her
savings, however, were sufficient for the purchase of a few
accessories, which made her, she considered, not unpresentable.
Scawthorne was to have a cab waiting for her at a little distance from
the luncheon-bar. It was now June, and at the hour of their meeting
still broad daylight, but Clara cared nothing for the chance that
acquaintances might see her; nay, she had a reckless desire that Sidney
Kirkwood might pass just at this moment. She noticed no one whom she
knew, however; but just as the cab was turning into Pentonville Road,
Scawthorne drew her attention to a person on the pavement.

'You see that old fellow,' he said. 'Would you believe that he is very
wealthy?'

Clara had just time to perceive an old man with white hair, dressed as
a mechanic.

'But I know him,' she replied. 'His name's Snowdon.'

'So it is. How do you come to know him?' Scawthorne inquired with
interest.

She explained.

'Better not say anything about it,' remarked her companion. 'He's an
eccentric chap. I happen to know his affairs in the way of business. I
oughtn't to have told secrets, but I can trust you.'

A gentle emphasis on the last word, and a smile of more than usual
intimacy. But his manner was, and remained through the evening,
respectful almost to exaggeration. Clara seemed scarcely conscious of
his presence, save in the act of listening to what he said. She never
met his look, never smiled. From entering the theatre to leaving it,
she had a high flush on her face. Impossible to recognise her friend in
the actress whom Scawthorne indicated; features and voice were wholl