Twice he began letters--pleading with her to forget his letter; begging her to come back.

And destroyed them with hands that shook like the hands of a sick man.

Then the dull insensibility to pain gave him a little respite, but later the misery and terror of it drove him out into the street with an insane idea of seeking her--of taking the train and finding her.
He throttled that impulse; the struggle exhausted him; and he returned, listlessly, to the door and stood there, vacant-eyed, staring into the lamp-lit street.
Once he caught sight of a shadowy, graceful figure crossing the avenue--a lithe young silhouette against the gas-light--and his heart stood still for an instant but it was not she, and he swayed where he stood, under the agony of reaction, dazed by the rushing recession of emotion.
Then a sudden fear seized him that she might have come while he had been away.

He had been as far as the avenue.

Could she have come?
But when he arrived at his door he had scarce courage enough to go in.
She had a key; she might have entered.