For three days Douglas watched in vain. On the fourth his heart gave a great leap, for a sombre little figure stepped out from an omnibus at the corner of Russell Square and stood hesitatingly upon the pavement, looking in through the iron bars at the Museum. He came across the street to her boldly—she turned and saw him. After all, their greeting approached the conventional. He remembered to raise his hat—she held out her hand—would have withdrawn it, but found it already clasped in his.
"Cicely. How good of you. You saw my advertisement?"
"Yes."
"And you saw me in the Strand, but you would not speak to me. Was that because of Joan?"
"Yes."
"I want to talk to you," he said. "I have so much to say."
She raised her eyes to his, and he saw for the first time how much thinner she was.
"Douglas," she said, "there is something I must ask you first of all before I stay with you for a moment. Must I put it into words?"
"I do not think you need, Cicely," he answered. "I went to your father's room that night beyond a doubt, but I never raised my hand against him. I should have very hard work to prove it, I fancy, but I am wholly innocent of his death—innocent, that is to say, so far as any direct action of mine was concerned."
She drew a long deep breath of relief. Then she looked up to him with a beautiful smile.