"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.
"I shall be very pleased," she answered promptly.
Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.
At the gate they stopped. She turned and faced him, and as she did so she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision on some important point.
"Good-bye, Mr. Browne," she said, and as she said it Browne noticed that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. He could bear it no longer.
"Miss Petrovitch," he began, "you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel sure that you are not happy. Will you not trust me and let me help you? You know how gladly I would do so."
"There is no way in which you can help me," she answered, and then she bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob, vanished into the studio. For some moments he stood waiting where he was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to Park Lane. His afternoon was a broken and restless one; he could not rid himself of the recollection of the girl's face, and he felt as sure as a man could well be that something was amiss. But how was he to help her? At any rate he was going to try.
The clocks in the neighbourhood were striking eleven next morning as he alighted from his hansom and approached the door of the studio. He rang the bell, but no answer rewarded him. He rang again, but with the same result.
Not being able to make any one hear, he returned to his cab and set off for the Warwick Road. Reaching the house, the number of which Katherine had given him, he ascended the steps and rang the bell. When the maid-servant answered his summons, he inquired for Miss Petrovitch.
"Miss Petrovitch?" said the girl, as if she were surprised. "She is not here, sir. She and Madame Bernstein left for Paris this morning."