Soon after he had finished breakfast he set out for the Van Heigens’ house.  But as yet, though he had some comprehension of Julia, he had not fully realised the promptness of action which necessity had taught her.  When he reached the Van Heigens’ she had been gone some sixteen hours.

It was Vrouw Van Heigen who told him; she was in the veranda when he arrived, and so, perforce, saw him and answered his inquiries.  It was evident, at the outset, that neither his appearance nor name conveyed anything to her; she had not seen him the day of the excursion, and Denah’s description, purposely complicated by a cross description of Julia’s, had conveyed nothing, and his name had never transpired.  He saw he was unknown, and recognised Julia’s loyal screening of him, not with any satisfaction; evidently it was part of her creed to stand between a man (father or otherwise) and the consequence of his acts.  That was an additional reason for finding her and explaining that he, unlike Captain Polkington, was not used to anything of the sort.

“She has gone?” he said, in answer to Vrouw Van Heigen’s brief information.  The old lady was decidedly nervous of the impressive Englishman who had come asking after her disgraced companion; she moved her fat hands uneasily even before he asked, “Where has she gone?  Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me her address?”

“I cannot,” she was obliged to say; “I have not it.  I do not know where she is.”

Rawson-Clew stared.  “But surely,” he said, “you are mistaken?  She was here yesterday.”

“Yes, yes; I know.  But she is not here now; she went last night in haste.  I will tell you about it.  You are a friend?  Come in.”

Without waiting, she led him into the drawing-room, and there left him in some haste.  The room struck him as familiar; he wondered why, until he remembered that it must have been Julia’s description which made him so well acquainted with it.  It was all just as she described; the thick, dark-coloured carpet, with the little carefully-bound strips of the same material laid over it to make paths to the piano, the stove, and other frequented spots.  The highly-polished furniture, upholstered in black and yellow Utrecht velvet, the priceless Chinese porcelain brought home by old Dutch merchants, and handed down from mother to daughter for generations; the antimacassars of crochet work, the snuff-coloured wall-paper, the wonderful painted tiles framed in ebony that hung upon it.  It was all just as she had said; the very light and smell seemed familiar, she must somehow have given him an idea of them too.

Just then Vrouw Van Heigen came back, and her husband with her; she had been to fetch him, not feeling equal to dealing with the visitor alone.  Mijnheer, by her request, had put on his best coat, but he still had his spectacles pushed upon his forehead, as they always were when he was disturbed in the office.

There was a formal greeting—­one never dispensed with that in Holland, then Mijnheer said, “You are, I suppose, a friend of Miss Polkington’s father?”