It was just upon midnight when Eve returned.  She came at a quick walk, and alone; the light of the street-lamps showed her figure distinctly enough to leave the watcher in no doubt.  A latchkey admitted her to the house.  Presently there appeared a light at an upper window, and a shadow kept moving across the blind.  When the light was extinguished Hilliard went to bed, but that night he slept little.

The next morning passed in restless debate with himself.  He did not cross the way to call upon Eve:  the thought of speaking with her on the doorstep of a lodging-house proved intolerable.  All day long he kept his post of observation.  Other persons he saw leave and enter the house, but Miss Madeley did not come forth.  That he could have missed her seemed impossible, for even while eating his meals he remained by the window.  Perchance she had left home very early in the morning, but it was unlikely.

Through the afternoon it rained:  the gloomy sky intensified his fatigue and despondence.  About six o’clock, exhausted in mind and body, he had allowed his attention to stray, when the sudden clang of a street organ startled him.  His eyes turned in the wonted direction ­and instantly he sprang up.  To clutch his hat, to rush from the room and from the house, occupied but a moment.  There, walking away on the other side, was Eve.  Her fawn-coloured mantle, her hat with the yellow flowers, were the same as yesterday.  The rain had ceased; in the western sky appeared promise of a fair evening.

Hilliard pursued her in a parallel line.  At the top of the street she crossed towards him; he let her pass by and followed closely.  She entered the booking-office of Gower Street station; he drew as near as possible and heard her ask for a ticket ­

“Healtheries; third return.”

The slang term for the Health Exhibition at Kensington was familiar to him from the English papers he had seen in Paris.  As soon as Eve had passed on he obtained a like ticket and hastened down the steps in pursuit.  A minute or two and he was sitting face to face with her in the railway carriage.

He could now observe her at his leisure and compare her features with those represented in the photograph.  Mrs. Brewer had said truly that the portrait did not do her justice; he saw the resemblance, yet what a difference between the face he had brooded over at Dudley and that which lived before him!  A difference not to be accounted for by mere lapse of time.  She could not, he thought, have changed greatly in the last two or three years, for her age at the time of sitting for the photograph must have been at least one-and-twenty.  She did not look older than he had expected:  it was still a young face, but ­and herein he found its strangeness ­that of a woman who views life without embarrassment, without anxiety.  She sat at her ease, casting careless glances this way and that.  When her eyes fell upon him he winced, yet she paid no more heed to him than to the other passengers.

Presently she became lost in thought; her eyes fell.  Ah! now the resemblance to the portrait came out more distinctly.  Her lips shaped themselves to that expression which he knew so well, the half-smile telling of habitual sadness.

His fixed gaze recalled her to herself, and immediately the countenance changed beyond recognition.  Her eyes wandered past him with a look of cold if not defiant reserve; the lips lost all their sweetness.  He was chilled with vague distrust, and once again asked himself whether this could be the Eve Madeley whose history he had heard.

Again she fell into abstraction, and some trouble seemed to grow upon her mind.  It was difficult now to identify her with the girl who had talked and laughed so gaily last evening.  Towards the end of the journey a nervous restlessness began to appear in her looks and movements.  Hilliard felt that he had annoyed her by the persistency of his observation, and tried to keep his eyes averted.  But no; the disturbance she betrayed was due to some other cause; probably she paid not the least regard to him.

At Earl’s Court she alighted hurriedly.  By this time Hilliard had begun to feel shame in the ignoble part he was playing, but choice he had none ­the girl drew him irresistibly to follow and watch her.  Among the crowd entering the Exhibition he could easily keep her in sight without risk of his espial being detected.  That Eve had come to keep an appointment with some acquaintance he felt sure, and at any cost he must discover who the person was.

The event justified him with unexpected suddenness.  No sooner had she passed the turnstile than a man stepped forward, saluting her in form.  Eve shook hands with him, and they walked on.

Uncontrollable wrath seized on Hilliard and shook him from head to foot.  A meeting of this kind was precisely what he had foreseen, and he resented it violently.

Eve’s acquaintance had the external attributes of a gentleman.  One could not easily imagine him a clerk or a shop-assistant smartened up for the occasion.  He was plain of feature, but wore a pleasant, honest look, and his demeanour to the girl showed not only good breeding but unmistakable interest of the warmest kind.  His age might perhaps be thirty; he was dressed well, and in all respects conventionally.

In Eve’s behaviour there appeared a very noticeable reserve; she rarely turned her face to him while he spoke, and seemed to make only the briefest remarks.  Her attention was given to the objects they passed.

Totally unconscious of the scenes through which he was moving, Hilliard tracked the couple for more than an hour.  He noticed that the man once took out his watch, and from this trifling incident he sought to derive a hope; perhaps Eve would be quit ere long of the detested companionship.  They came at length to where a band was playing, and sat down on chairs; the pursuer succeeded in obtaining a seat behind them, but the clamour of instruments overpowered their voices, or rather the man’s voice, for Eve seemed not to speak at all.  One moment, when her neighbour’s head approached nearer than usual to hers, she drew slightly away.

The music ceased, whereupon Eve’s companion again consulted his watch.

“It’s a most unfortunate thing.”  He was audible now.  “I can’t possibly stay longer.”

Eve moved on her chair, as if in readiness to take leave of him, but she did not speak.

“You think it likely you will meet Miss Ringrose?”

Eve answered, but the listener could not catch her words.

“I’m so very sorry.  If there had been any ­”

The voice sank, and Hilliard could only gather from observance of the man’s face that he was excusing himself in fervent tones for the necessity of departure.  Then they both rose and walked a few yards together.  Finally, with a sense of angry exultation, Hilliard saw them part.

For a little while Eve stood watching the musicians, who were making ready to play a new piece.  As soon as the first note sounded she moved slowly, her eyes cast down.  With fiercely throbbing heart, thinking and desiring and hoping he knew not what, Hilliard once more followed her.  Night had now fallen; the grounds of the Exhibition shone with many-coloured illumination; the throng grew dense.  It was both easy and necessary to keep very near to the object of his interest.

There sounded a clinking of plates, cups, and glasses.  People were sitting at tables in the open air, supplied with refreshments by the waiters who hurried hither and thither.  Eve, after a show of hesitation, took a seat by a little round table which stood apart; her pursuer found a place whence he could keep watch.  She gave an order, and presently there was brought to her a glass of wine with a sandwich.

Hilliard called for a bottle of ale:  he was consumed with thirst.

“Dare I approach her?” he asked himself.  “Is it possible?  And, if possible, is it any use?”

The difficulty was to explain his recognition of her.  But for that, he might justify himself in addressing her.

She had finished her wine and was looking round.  Her glance fell upon him, and for a moment rested.  With a courage not his own, Hilliard rose, advanced, and respectfully doffed his hat.

“Miss Madeley ­”

The note was half interrogative, but his voice failed before he could add another syllable.  Eve drew herself up, rigid in the alarm of female instinct.

“I am a stranger to you,” Hilliard managed to say.  “But I come from Dudley; I know some of your friends ­”

His hurried words fell into coherence.  At the name “Dudley” Eve’s features relaxed.

“Was it you who called at my lodgings the day before yesterday?”

“I did.  Your address was given me by Mrs. Brewer, in whose house I have lived for a long time.  She wished me to call and to give you a kind message ­to say how glad they would be to hear from you ­”

“But you didn’t leave the message.”

The smile put Hilliard at his ease, it was so gentle and friendly.

“I wasn’t able to come at the time I mentioned.  I should have called to-morrow.”

“But how is it that you knew me?  I think,” she added, without waiting for a reply, “that I have seen you somewhere.  But I can’t remember where.”

“Perhaps in the train this evening?”

“Yes so it was You knew me then?”

“I thought I did, for I happened to come out from my lodgings at the moment you were leaving yours, just opposite, and we walked almost together to Gower Street station.  I must explain that I have taken rooms in Gower Place.  I didn’t like to speak to you in the street; but now that I have again chanced to see you ­”

“I still don’t understand,” said Eve, who was speaking with the most perfect ease of manner.  “I am not the only person living in that house.  Why should you take it for granted that I was Miss Madeley?”

Hilliard had not ventured to seat himself; he stood before her, head respectfully bent.

“At Mrs. Brewer’s I saw your portrait.”

Her eyes fell.

“My portrait.  You really could recognise me from that?”

“Oh, readily!  Will you allow me to sit down?”

“Of course.  I shall be glad to hear the news you have brought.  I couldn’t imagine who it was had called and wanted to see me.  But there’s another thing.  I didn’t think Mrs. Brewer knew my address.  I have moved since I wrote to her daughter.”

“No; it was the old address she gave me.  I ought to have mentioned that:  it escaped my mind.  First of all I went to Belmont Street.”

“Mysteries still!” exclaimed Eve.  “The people there couldn’t know where I had gone to.”

“A child who had carried some parcel for you to Gower Place volunteered information.”

Outwardly amused, and bearing herself as though no incident could easily disconcert her, Eve did not succeed in suppressing every sign of nervousness.  Constrained by his wonder to study her with critical attention, the young man began to feel assured that she was consciously acting a part.  That she should be able to carry it off so well, therein lay the marvel.  Of course, London had done much for her.  Possessing no common gifts, she must have developed remarkably under changed conditions, and must, indeed, have become a very different person from the country girl who toiled to support her drunken father’s family.  Hilliard remembered the mention of her sister who had gone to Birmingham disappeared; it suggested a characteristic of the Madeley blood, which possibly must be borne in mind if he would interpret Eve.

She rested her arms on the little round table.

“So Mrs. Brewer asked you to come and find me?”

“It was only a suggestion, and I may as well tell you how it came about.  I used to have my meals in Mrs. Brewer’s parlour, and to amuse myself I looked over her album.  There I found your portrait, and ­well, it interested me, and I asked the name of the original.”

Hilliard was now in command of himself; he spoke with simple directness, as his desires dictated.

“And Mrs. Brewer,” said Eve, with averted eyes, “told you about me?”

“She spoke of you as her daughter’s friend,” was the evasive answer.  Eve seemed to accept it as sufficient, and there was a long silence.

“My name is Hilliard,” the young man resumed.  “I am taking the first holiday, worth speaking of, that I have known for a good many years.  At Dudley my business was to make mechanical drawings, and I can’t say that I enjoyed the occupation.”

“Are you going back to it?”

“Not just yet.  I have been in France, and I may go abroad again before long.”

“For your pleasure?” Eve asked, with interest.

“To answer ‘Yes’ wouldn’t quite express what I mean.  I am learning to live.”

She hastily searched his face for the interpretation of these words, then looked away, with grave, thoughtful countenance.

“By good fortune,” Hilliard pursued.  “I have become possessed of money enough to live upon for a year or two.  At the end of it I may find myself in the old position, and have to be a living machine once more.  But I shall be able to remember that I was once a man.”

Eve regarded him strangely, with wide, in tent eyes, as though his speech had made a peculiar impression upon her.

“Can you see any sense in that?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes.  I think I understand you.”

She spoke slowly, and Hilliard, watching her, saw in her face more of the expression of her portrait than he had yet discovered.  Her soft tone was much more like what he had expected to hear than her utterances hitherto.

“Have you always lived at Dudley?” she asked.

He sketched rapidly the course of his life, without reference to domestic circumstances.  Before he had ceased speaking he saw that Eve’s look was directed towards something at a distance behind him; she smiled, and at length nodded, in recognition of some person who approached.  Then a voice caused him to look round.

“Oh, there you are!  I have been hunting for you ever so long.”

As soon as Hilliard saw the speaker, he had no difficulty in remembering her.  It was Eve’s companion of the day before yesterday, with whom she had started for the theatre.  The girl evidently felt some surprise at discovering her friend in conversation with a man she did not know; but Eve was equal to the situation, and spoke calmly.

“This gentleman is from my part of the world ­from Dudley.  Mr. Hilliard ­Miss Ringrose.”

Hilliard stood up.  Miss Ringrose, after attempting a bow of formal dignity, jerked out her hand, gave a shy little laugh, and said with amusing abruptness ­

“Do you really come from Dudley?”

“I do really, Miss Ringrose.  Why does it sound strange to you?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that it sounds strange.”  She spoke in a high but not unmusical note, very quickly, and with timid glances to either side of her collocutor.  “But Eve ­Miss Madeley ­gave me the idea that Dudley people must be great, rough, sooty men.  Don’t laugh at me, please.  You know very well, Eve, that you always talk in that way.  Of course, I knew that there must be people of a different kind, but ­there now, you’re making me confused, and I don’t know what I meant to say.”

She was a thin-faced, but rather pretty girl, with auburn hair.  Belonging to a class which, especially in its women, has little intelligence to boast of, she yet redeemed herself from the charge of commonness by a certain vivacity of feature and an agreeable suggestion of good feeling in her would-be frank but nervous manner.  Hilliard laughed merrily at the vision in her mind of “great, rough, sooty men.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Ringrose.”

“No, but really ­what sort of a place is Dudley?  Is it true that they call it the Black Country?”

“Let us walk about,” interposed Eve.  “Mr. Hilliard will tell you all he can about the Black Country.”

She moved on, and they rambled aimlessly; among cigar-smoking clerks and shopmen, each with the female of his kind in wondrous hat and drapery; among domestic groups from the middle-class suburbs, and from regions of the artisan; among the frankly rowdy and the solemnly superior; here and there a man in evening dress, generally conscious of his white tie and starched shirt, and a sprinkling of unattached young women with roving eyes.  Hilliard, excited by the success of his advances, and by companionship after long solitude, became very unlike himself, talking and jesting freely.  Most of the conversation passed between him and Miss Ringrose; Eve had fallen into an absent mood, answered carelessly when addressed, laughed without genuine amusement, and sometimes wore the look of trouble which Hilliard had observed whilst in the train.

Before long she declared that it was time to go home.

“What’s the hurry?” said her friend.  “It’s nothing like ten o’clock yet ­is it, Mr. Hilliard?”

“I don’t wish to stay any longer.  Of course you needn’t go unless you like, Patty.”

Hilliard had counted on travelling back with her; to his great disappointment, Eve answered his request to be allowed to do so with a coldly civil refusal which there was no misunderstanding.

“But I hope you will let me see you again?”

“As you live so near me,” she answered, “we are pretty sure to meet.  Are you coming or not, Patty?”

“Oh, of course I shall go if you do.”

The young man shook hands with them; rather formally with Eve, with Patty Ringrose as cordially as if they were old friends.  And then he lost sight of them amid the throng.