She was facing him, and as for an instant their eyes met she hesitated, as if she were on the point of speaking.

In that moment he recognized her.
It was the girl in the photograph, older, more beautiful--the same soft, sweet contour of face, the same dark eyes that had looked at him in MacGregor's office, filled with an indescribable sadness now, instead of the laughing joy of girlhood.

In another moment he would have responded to her hesitation, to the pathetic tremble of her lips, but before words could form themselves she had turned and was gone.

And yet at the door, even as she disappeared, he saw her face turned to him again, pleadingly, entreatingly, as if she knew his mission and sent to him a silent prayer for mercy.
Thrusting back his chair, he caught up his hat from a rack and followed.
He was in time to see her pass through the low door out into the night.
Without hesitation his mind had leaped to a definite purpose.

He would overtake her outside, introduce himself, and then perhaps he would understand the conflicting orders of Inspector MacGregor.
The girl was passing swiftly down the main street when he took up the pursuit.