"Miss Crown is over at Mr. Vick's," she announced. "She's not at home."
He stiffened. "I had an appointment with her for this evening, Hilda. She must be at home."
"She ain't," said the maid succinctly.
"Did she leave any word for me?"
"Not with me, sir. She telephoned to Mrs. Strong this evening to say she was going to stay with Mrs. Vick."
"All night?"
"No, sir. The car's going down to meet her at the ferry about ten o'clock."
He departed in a very unpleasant frame of mind. This was laying it on a bit thick, he complained. If she thought she could treat him in this cavalier fashion she'd soon find out where she "got off." What business had she, anyhow, over at the Vicks? All the old women in the neighbourhood would be there to—An idea struck him suddenly.
"I'll do it," he muttered. "I'll have to go over some time, so why not now? It's the decent thing to do. I'll go tonight."
He hurried up to his room. Opening his trunk, he took out his revolver, replaced the discharged shells and stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Picking up the little package of bank-notes, he fingered them for a moment and then, moved by an impulse for which he had no explanation, he not only counted them but quickly stuffed them into his trousers' pocket. Afterwards he was convinced that premonition was responsible for this incomprehensible act.