Whichever way I looked at the matter I was forced to the conclusion that there could be no success without a certain amount of risk, and I had not yet accustomed myself to the idea of risk. It seemed inevitable that I must make myself acquainted with young Gascoyne somehow or other, but I left this as a last resource, and I am glad I did so, for fate assisted me in a most remarkable manner.
One Sunday afternoon I found myself wandering in the neighbourhood of the Bloomsbury flats where Kate Falconer lived. I had become so tenacious of my purpose that whilst thinking out some definite scheme I enjoyed feeling that I was in the vicinity of my intended victim. I knew that as a rule he spent Sunday afternoon at the flat. A sudden curiosity impelled me to enter the building, and, passing the hall-porter as if I had business, I climbed to the top. It seemed likely to have been an aimless proceeding, but as I was descending I heard Miss Falconer’s door open on the landing just above me, and recognised her voice in conversation with young Gascoyne.
“I shan’t see you till next Saturday then?”
“I’m afraid not; my father and mother will want me every day till they go away. I shall call for you on Saturday at eleven. Our train leaves Waterloo at eleven-thirty.”
“Just fancy a whole week at the seaside together! It will be perfect, won’t it?”
There was a silence eloquent of an embrace. I waited, anxious to know where they were going.
“You don’t mind a quiet place?”
“I should have minded it a year ago. I like it now.”
“Well, Lowhaven is quite quiet, and at this time of year we shall probably have the hotel to ourselves.”
There was another embrace, and, conscious that the interview might draw to a close any moment, I stole downstairs.