ll about it.
Tell us what you are doing here--or rather, don't talk for a moment! It
is all so amazing."

They turned down the narrow cobbled street, the professor walking in the
middle of the roadway, swinging his cane, a very imposing and wonderful
figure, with the tails of his frock-coat streaming in the wind, his
long hair only half-hidden by his hat. He hummed a tune to himself
and affected not to take any notice of the other two. Then Tavernake
suddenly realized that he had done a cowardly action in leaving her
without a word.

"There is so much to ask," she began at last, "but you have come back."

She looked at his workman's clothes.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, sharply.

"Working," Tavernake answered, "good work, too. I am the better for it.
Don't mind my clothes, Beatrice. I have been mad for a time, but after
all it has been a healthy madness."

"It was a strange thing that you did," she said,--"you disappeared."

He nodded.

"Some day," he told her, "I may, perhaps, be able to make you
understand. Just now I don't think that I could."

"It was Elizabeth?" she whispered, softly.

"It was Elizabeth," he admitted.

They said no more then till they reached the hall. She stopped at the
door and put out her hand timidly.

"I shall see you afterwards?" she ventured.

"Do you mind my coming to the performance?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"A few moments ago," she remarked, smiling, "I was dreading your coming.
Now I think that you had better. It will be all over at ten o'clock, and
I shall look for you outside. You are living in Norwich?"

"I shall be here for to-night, at any rate," he answered.

"Very well, then," she said, "afterwards we will have a talk."

Tavernake passed through the scattered knot of loiterers at the door
and bought a seat for himself in the little music-hall, which,
notwithstanding the professor's boast, was none too well filled. It was
a place of the old-fashioned sort, with small tables in the front, and
waiters hurrying about serving drinks. The people were of the lowest
order, and the atmosphere of the room was thick with tobacco smoke.
A young woman in a flaxen wig and boy's clothes was singing a popular
ditty, marching up and down the stage, and interspersing the words o f
her song with grimaces and appropriate action. Tavernake sat down with
a barely-smothered groan. He was beginning to realize the tragedy upon
which he had stumbled. A comic singer foll