ed, and
brought out a letter, unopened, all grimy, and showing signs of having
been there for some considerable time. He held it between his fingers,
doubtful at first from where it had come. Then suddenly he remembered.
He remembered the runaway horses in the Bois, and the strange-looking
old woman who had sat in the carriage with grim, drawn lips and pallid
face. He remembered the dash into the roadway, the brief, maddening
race by the side of the horses, his clutch at the reins, the sense
of being dragged along the dusty road. It was, perhaps, the one
physically courageous action of his life. The horses were stopped, and
the woman's life was saved. He looked at the letter in his hand.

"Why not?" he asked himself softly.

He hesitated, and glanced downward once more toward the river. The
sight seemed to decide him. He turned his weary footsteps again
westward.

Walking with visible effort, and resting whenever he had a chance, he
reached at last the Oxford Street end of Bond Street. Holding the
letter in his hand, he made his way, slowly and more painfully than
ever, down the right-hand side. People stared at him a little
curiously. He was a strange figure, passing through the crowds of
well-dressed, sauntering men and women. He was unnaturally thin--the
pallor of his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes spoke of starvation.
His clothes had been well-cut, but they were almost in rags. His cap
had cost him a few pence at a second-hand store.

He made his way toward his destination, looking neither to the right
nor to the left. The days had gone when he found it interesting to
study the faces of the passers-by, looking out always for adventures,
amusing himself with shrewd speculations as to the character and
occupation of those who seemed worthy of notice. This was his last
quest now--the quest of life or death.

He stopped in front of a certain number, and comparing it with the
tattered envelope which he held in his hand, finally entered. The
lift-boy, who was lounging in the little hall, looked at him in
surprise.

"I want to find Madame Helga," the young man said shortly. "This is
number 38, isn't it?"

The boy looked at him doubtfully, and led the way to the lift.

"Third floor," he said. "I'll take you up."

The lift stopped, and Bertrand Saton found in front of him a door upon
which was a small brass plate, engraved simply with the name of Helga.
He knocked twice, and received no answer. Then, turning th