in the
basement, and he bayed furiously. I leaned over the balustrade and
called out. He knew my voice, and quieted down at once, but not before
his master had come out in his pyjamas, yawning and blinking. Poor old
Jenkins, his rest was pretty frequently disturbed, for if any one of the
bachelor tenants of the upper flats--the lower ones were let out as
offices--forgot his street-door key, or returned in the small hours in a
condition that precluded him from manipulating it, Jenkins would be rung
up to let him in; and, being one of the best of good sorts, would
certainly guide him up the staircase and put him comfortably to bed.

"I'm right down sorry, Jenkins," I called. "I found the street door
open, and slammed it without thinking."

"Open! Well there, who could have left it open, going out or in?" he
exclaimed, seeming more perturbed than the occasion warranted. "Must
have been quite a short time back, for it isn't an hour since Caesar
began barking like he did just now; and he never barks for nothing. I
went right up the stairs and there was no one there and not a sound.
The door was shut fast enough then, for I tried it. It couldn't have
been Mr. Gray or Mr. Sellars, for they're away week ending, and Mr.
Cassavetti came in before twelve. I met him on the stairs as I was
turning the lights down."

"Perhaps he went out again to post," I suggested. "Good night, Jenkins."

"Good night, sir. You got caught in the storm, then?" He had just seen
how wet I was, and eyed me curiously, as the policeman had done.

"Yes, couldn't see a cab and had to come through it. Lost my hat, too;
it blew off," I answered over my shoulder, as I ran up the stairs.
Lightly clad though he was, Jenkins seemed inclined to stay gossiping
there till further orders.

When I got into my flat and switched on the lights, I found I still
held, crumpled up in my hand, the bit of geranium I had picked up on the
river steps. But for that evidence I might have persuaded myself that I
had imagined the whole thing. I dropped the crushed petals into the
waste-paper basket, and, as I hastily changed from my wet clothes into
pyjamas, I mentally rehearsed the scene over and over again. Could I
have been misled by a chance resemblance? Impossible. Anne was not
merely a beautiful girl, but a strikingly distinctive personality. I had
recognized her figure, her gait, as I would have recognized them among a
thousand; that fleeting glimpse of her face had mer