He put on a heavy ulster and left the hotel. "I don't think anyone noticed who I am," he reflected. And then he made his way down past the Free Trade Hall, towards Deansgate.
"Twenty-five Dixon Street," he kept on repeating to himself—"twenty-five Dixon Street, off Dean Street."
He did not seem to know where he was going. More than once he hustled someone on the sidewalk and then passed on as if unconscious of what he had done. Presently he reached Dean Street and walked along it some little distance; then, turning, he found himself in a network of short, dark streets, evidently inhabited by a working-class community. He looked at the numbers carefully as he passed along. After some little time he stopped. He knocked at one of the doors and was immediately admitted.
A second later the light fell on the form of a woman. Her face was pale and haggard. In her eyes was a look of madness. The gaslight also shone upon Judge Bolitho's face. He had placed his hat upon the table, and his every feature was exposed.
The woman came close to him and looked at him steadily, while he, like one fascinated, fixed his eyes upon her face.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "do you know me?"
For a few seconds he did not speak, but looked steadily at her. Then, as if with difficulty, words escaped him.
"Jean!" he gasped. "Jean! Then you're not dead!"
"You know me, then, Douglas Graham? I have waited a long time for this night. Sometimes I thought it would never come. Year after year I've watched, all in vain, and then suddenly I learnt the truth!"
She did not seem like one in a passion. Her voice was low and hard. Her hands were steady. Her eyes burnt with a mad light. It seemed as though all the passion, all the hatred, all the despair of more than twenty years were expressed in them just now.