" "Proceed, Sir," said Trenchard, breathing hard. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. “How did you find me?” She asked. ” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps. It always comes out sooner or later. He had said so. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience.
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