She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. You're luck. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. I say again, grace à vous. And so, here we are, right back from where we started. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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