The following evening while Leslie waited in a small waiting-room near the entrance to the house a man was ushered in—a man with grey hair and bowed shoulders, a man enveloped in a long cloak—for the mist was heavy and the night was wet without. Leaping to her feet, Leslie grasped him by the hand, and said:
"It was good of you to come, Mr. Ilingsworth, and you've found him, I can see by your eyes. Oh, how can I thank you enough! I was to help you, and here you're helping me."
"I'm helping him," said Giles Ilingsworth, steadily, but kindly. He straightened up, and went on: "I haven't seen him, but I've located him—I know the floor he lives on. He—he's always in evenings. They say he has a job with some labourers on the new subway."
"Come!" she cried, seizing his arm.
"Wait," he said, "why don't you send for him?"
Leslie shook her head.
"He would never come. I've got to go to him to-night. I can't wait another minute—not another minute."
In the open doorway while she drew her cloak tight about her, they stood and peered out into the Drive.
"We'll get a cab," she said, taking his arm; but Ilingsworth was adamant.