Why had she quitted her situation at a moment's notice?
Why on this occasion rather than fifty times previously?
It was not her own doing; something impelled her, and the same force--call it chance or destiny--would direct the issue once more.

All she could foresee was the keeping of her appointment with Scawthorne to-morrow morning; what use to try and look further, when assuredly a succession of circumstances impossible to calculate would in the end constrain her?
The best would be if she could sleep out the interval.
At mid-day she rose, ate and drank mechanically, then contemplated the hours that must somehow be killed.

There was sunlight in the sky, but to what purpose should she go out?
She went to the window, and surveyed the portion of street that was visible.

On the opposite pavement, at a little distance, a man was standing; it was Sidney Kirkwood.

The sight of him roused her from apathy; her blood tingled, rushed into her cheeks and throbbed at her temples.