My patience was being severely exercised after this, for Eric did not go straight to his lodgings.  He went into a butcher’s first, and after a few minutes’ delay—­for there were customers in the shop—­came out with a newspaper parcel in his hand.  Then he went into a grocer’s, and through the window I could see him putting little packets of tea and sugar in his pocket.

His next business was to the baker’s, and here a three-cornered crusty loaf was the result.  The poor young fellow was evidently providing his evening meal, and the sight of these homely delicacies reminded me that I was tired and hungry and that a cup of tea would be refreshing.  Eric carried his steak and three-cornered loaf jauntily, and every now and then broke into a sweet low whistle that reminded me of his nickname among his mates of ‘Jack the Whistler.’

We were threading the labyrinth of streets that lie behind Bishop’s Road Station; I was beginning to feel weary and discouraged, when Eric stopped suddenly before a neat-looking house of two stories, with very bright geraniums in the parlour window, and taking out his latch-key let himself in, and closed the door with a bang.

I stalked carelessly to the end of the street, and read the name.  ’No. 25 Madison Street,’ I said to myself, and then I went up to the door and knocked boldly.  My time had come now, I thought, trying to pull myself together, for I felt decidedly nervous.

A stout, oldish woman with rather a pleasant face opened the door; her arms were bare, and she dried her hands on her apron as she asked me my business.

‘Your lodger Jack Poynter has just come in,’ I said quietly.  ’I have a message for him.  Can I see him, please?’

‘Oh ay,—­you can see him surely.’  And she stepped back into the passage and called out, ’Jack, Jack! here is a young woman wants to speak to you.’  But I shut the door hurriedly and interrupted her: 

‘Let me go up to his room:  you can tell me where it is’; for it never would do to speak to him in the passage.

’Well, perhaps he may be washing and brushing himself a bit after his journey,’ she returned good-humouredly:  ’he is a tidy chap, is Jack.  If you go up to the top landing and knock at the second door, that is his sitting-room; he sleeps at the back, and Sawyer has the other room.’

I followed these instructions, and knocked at the front-room door; but no voice bade me come in; only a short bark and a scuffle of feet gave me notice of the occupant:  so I ventured to go in.

It was a tidy little room, and had a snug aspect.  A white fox-terrier with a pretty face retreated growling under a chair, but I coaxed her to come out.  The steak and the loaf were on the table.  But I had no time for any further observation, for a voice said, ’What are you barking at, Jenny?’ and the next moment Eric entered the room.

He started when he saw me caressing the dog.