horrible din, fit to wake the seven sleepers of Ephesus.

It did waken the housekeeper’s big watch-dog, chained up in the basement, and he bayed furiously. I leaned over the balustrade and called out. He knew my voice, and quieted down at once, but not before his master had come out in his pyjamas, yawning and blinking. Poor old Jenkins, his rest was pretty frequently disturbed, for if any one of the bachelor tenants of the upper flats—the lower ones were let out as offices—forgot his street-door key, or returned in the small hours in a condition that precluded him from manipulating it, Jenkins would be rung up to let him in; and, being one of the best of good sorts, would certainly guide him up the staircase and put him comfortably to bed.

“I’m right down sorry, Jenkins,” I called. “I found the street door open, and slammed it without thinking.”

“Open! Well there, who could have left it open, [Pg 38]going out or in?” he exclaimed, seeming more perturbed than the occasion warranted. “Must have been quite a short time back, for it isn’t an hour since Caesar began barking like he did just now; and he never barks for nothing. I went right up the stairs and there was no one there and not a sound. The door was shut fast enough then, for I tried it. It couldn’t have been Mr. Gray or Mr. Sellars, for they’re away week ending, and Mr. Cassavetti came in before twelve. I met him on the stairs as I was turning the lights down.”

[Pg 38]

“Perhaps he went out again to post,” I suggested. “Good night, Jenkins.”

“Good night, sir. You got caught in the storm, then?” He had just seen how wet I was, and eyed me curiously, as the policeman had done.

“Yes, couldn’t see a cab and had to come through it. Lost my hat, too; it blew off,” I answered over my shoulder, as I ran up the stairs. Lightly clad though he was, Jenkins seemed inclined to stay gossiping there till further orders.

When I got into my flat and switched on the lights, I found I still held, crumpled up in my hand, the bit of geranium I had picked up on the river steps. But for that evidence I might have persuaded myself that I had imagined the whole thing. I dropped the crushed petals into the waste-paper basket, and, as I hastily changed from my wet clothes into pyjamas, I mentally rehearsed the scene over and over again. Could I have been misled by a chance resemblance? Impossible. Anne was not merely a beautiful girl, but a 

 Prev. P 29/241 next