impeded by a number of persons who were entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass.  Scarcely ten seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passage which winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings behind the Kinsky Palace.  The vast buttresses and towers cast deep shadows below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb what remains of the uncertain winter’s daylight.  To the left of the church a low arch spans the lane, affording a covered communication between the north aisle and the sacristy.  To the right the open space is somewhat broader, and three dark archways give access to as many passages, leading in radiating directions and under the old houses to the streets beyond.

The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings which set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his quick eyes scanned everything within sight.  To the left, no figure resembling the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he fancied that among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could distinguish just within one of the archways a moving shadow, black against the blackness.  In an instant he had crossed the way and was hurrying through the gloom.  Already far before him, but visible and, as he believed, unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless as thought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed.  He cried aloud, as he ran,

“Beatrice!  Beatrice!”

His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court beyond.  It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound clearly to the distance.  She must have heard him, she must have known his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor slacken her speed.

He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered, for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at a headlong pace.  But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black garment was just disappearing.  He emerged into the street, in which he could now see in both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more.  He was alone.  The rusty iron shutters of the little shops were all barred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision was closed.  He stood still in surprise and listened.  There was no sound to be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor the fall of a footstep.

He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do in the flash of a moment’s intuition.  It was physically impossible that she should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had their entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed.  Apart from the presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a quarter, there was the self-evident fact that he must have