“And she is in Paris?”
“No, in London at present; but I didn't know her address till to-day. I think she had her doubts of me, and meant to give me the slip.”
“How did you find it out?”
“Quite by chance. I was walking in Mill Street, Knightsbridge, and saw her pass in a victoria.”
Maine got up suddenly, and went over to the spirit-stand. “In Mill Street?” he said.
“Yes. The carriage stopped at No. 100. She went in. A footman came out and carried in her rug. Ergo, she lives there.”
“How hot it is!” said Maine in a hard voice. He threw up one of the windows and leaned out. He felt as if he were choking. A little way down the street a half-tipsy guardsman was reeling along, singing his own private version of “Tommy Atkins.” He narrowly avoided a lamp-post by an abrupt lurch which took him into the gutter. Maine heard some one laugh. It was himself.
“Well, old chap,” said Manning, who had come up behind him, “what would you advise me to do? I'm in a fix. I'm in love with Eve—that's her name; I can't live without her happily, and yet I hate to marry a woman with a—well, you know how it is.”
Maine drew himself back into the room and faced round. “Does she love you?” he asked; and there was a curious change in his manner towards his friend.