The cause of that rapping at the door was this.
Cecil Buxton arrived by the train by which he had informed Miss Danvers, by letter, that he would arrive. Hastily seeing his luggage on to a cab, he drove off to the hotel. In the hall he encountered a porter.
The porter greeted him in rather a singular manner, scarcely as hotel porters are wont to greet arriving guests.
"What! Back again!" Cecil stared, as, under the circumstances, any man would stare. "This won't do, you know. I know all about it--you've been chucked. My orders is, not let you into the place again."
"My good man," said Cecil, fully believing that what he said was true, "you're drunk."
Just then a lady came down the staircase. He recognised her--recognised her well. He rushed towards her.
"Hetty!" he cried.
The lady gave a start, but not the sort of start he had reason, and good reason, to expect. She turned, she looked at him--with scornful eyes. She drew back, seeming to remove her very gown from any risk of personal contact.
"I half expected to see you at the station. Hetty, what--what's the matter?"
The lady said nothing, but she looked at him--and she walked away, her head held very high in the air.