He rose, went to the table,
and consulted a Red book that lay on it. There was the address--a house
in Grosvenor Street. Overcome by an uncontrollable impulse, he went out
of the room. Going to his own he found his mackintosh and a round hat,
and softly left the house. It was then past two in the morning, pouring
with rain, and blowing hard.
He had been a little in London as a lad and remembered the main
thoroughfares, so had no great difficulty in finding his way up
Piccadilly till he came to Park Lane, into which the Red book told him
Grosvenor Square opened. But to find Grosvenor Street itself was a more
difficult matter, and at such a time on such a night there was naturally
nobody to ask--least of all a policeman. At last he found it, and
hurried on down the street with a quickening pulse. What he was hurrying
to he could not tell, but that over-mastering impulse forced him on
quicker and quicker yet.
Suddenly he halted, and examined the number of one of the houses by the
faint and struggling light from the nearest lamp. It was _her_ house;
now there was nothing between them but a few feet of space and fourteen
inches of brickwork. He crossed over to the other side of the street,
and looked up at the house, but could scarcely make it out through the
driving rain.
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