porter's key in his lock would bring him to his feet with a suddenness that sometimes disconcerted the man. For a fortnight he had been living on the unsubstantial diet of hope.
There was no doubt about it; Lola was determined to drop him. It was Mrs. Crisp, he told himself, she was responsible. It had been a fortnight of torture, a fortnight that had brought with it the conviction that for him, Richard Beresford, nothing mattered but the Rain-Girl.
A ring at the telephone caused him to start violently. He snatched up the receiver.
"Dr. Tallis! Yes, show him up."
A minute later he was shaking Tallis cordially by the hand.
"What luck," he cried. "I'm awfully glad to see you."
He was conscious that Tallis was regarding him critically.
"You're not exactly a credit to me, young fellow," he said as he dropped into a chair with a sigh of content.
"I slept badly last night," Beresford explained in self-defense. "I've—I've been to Folkestone" he broke off suddenly.
"Folkestone!"
"Yes, you recommended the place, didn't you?"
"You found her then?" he said, looking up with interest.
"Found who?" enquired Beresford, with simulated indifference.
