ddress."

She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She
waited with an imperious expression.

"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate," Mary said, speaking
slowly and rather strangely.

"Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own
stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn't take twenty minutes to drive there?"
She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go.

"But you won't find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand.
Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked
at her.

"Why? Where is he?" she asked.

"He won't have left his office."

"But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he
have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him
and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find
him--as soon as possible."

Mary took in the situation at her leisure.

"But why not telephone?" she said.

Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained
expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn't I think
of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary
looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine
heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious
sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she
could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme
intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her
identity.

"Has Mr. Denham called?"

"Yes, miss."

"Did he ask for me?"

"Yes. We said you were out, miss."

"Did he leave any message?"

"No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss."

Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in
such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary's
absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone:

"Mary."

Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard
Katharine call her. "Yes," she said, "I shan't be a moment." But the
moment prolonged itself, as if for some reason Mary found satisfaction
in making herself not only tidy, but seemly and ornamented. A stage in
her life had been accomplished in the last months which left its traces
for ever upon her bearing. Youth, and the bloom of youth, had receded,
leaving the purpose of her face to show itself in the hollower cheeks,
the firmer lips, the eyes no longer