“Yes,” replied the girl.
“Is he in now?”
“Yes, he told me he was expecting a lady to call. Are you her?”
“Yes.”
“First floor—front,” said the girl, jerking a dirty thumb in the direction of the stairs as an indication to her visitor that she could find her way up unaided.
But before she had reached the top of the stairs the door of the front room on the first floor was opened, and the man she had come to see appeared on the stairs to welcome her. He clasped her hands eagerly and led her to his room, closing the door carefully behind him. For a moment he hesitated and then placed his arms around her. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he pressed his lips to hers in a long lingering kiss.
Arnold Brett was a young man of spare build whose military training had taught him to keep his shoulders well back. He had a slight black moustache, and his hair, which was carefully brushed down on his head, was raven black in colour. His aquiline nose seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his features; the glance from his dark eyes was restless and crafty.
“Darling, I knew you would come,” he said. He released her, but only for the purpose of taking her again in his arms and kissing her.
“But why are you here?” she asked, giving a glance at the impoverished furniture—the narrow bed with its faded counterpane, the cheap chest of drawers, the dressing-table with a cracked mirror, the dirty window curtains and the single wooden chair.
“Before God, I swear I had nothing to do with it, Elsie,” he exclaimed passionately.