"You're intent on watching, then?" said Hetherwick as they moved off.
"I'm not coming all that way for nothing," replied Matherfield. "I'm going to follow her up till she settles for the night. That won't be here; she'll be off to some hotel or other before long."
But Matherfield's prediction proved to be faulty. Time dragged slowly by in the stuffy and shabby little room in which he and Hetherwick took up a position and from the window of which Matherfield kept a constant watch on the entrance of the flats, exactly opposite. Midnight came and went, but nothing happened. And at half-past twelve Hetherwick suggested that the game wasn't worth the candle, and that he should prefer to depart.
"You do as you like, Mr. Hetherwick," said Matherfield, stifling a suspicious yawn. "I'm sick enough of it, too. But here I stop till she comes out—whether it's this side of breakfast or the other side!"
"And what then?" asked Hetherwick, half derisively.
"Then we'll see—or I'll see, if you're going—where she goes next! Don't believe in half measures!" retorted Matherfield.
"Oh, I'll see it out!" said Hetherwick. "After all, it'll be daylight soon."
Daylight came over the house-tops at four o'clock. They had seen nothing up to then. But at twenty minutes to five Matherfield tugged his companion's arm. Lady Riversreade, in a big ulster travelling-coat and carrying a small suit-case, was emerging alone from the opposite door.