She began to worry.

Had he been run over by an omnibus?
Only an ever-recurring miracle could bring him safely across the streets of a great city.

When the Callenders took her to the Morgue she dreaded to look at the corpses.
"I do wish I knew what has become of him," she said to Turner.
"Why not write to him, ma'am ?" Turner suggested.
"I've forgotten the name of his hotel," said Zora, wrinkling her forehead.
The name of the Hotel Quincamboeuf, where he lodged, eluded her memory.
"I do wish I knew," she repeated.
Then she caught an involuntary but illuminating gleam in Turner's eye, and she bade her look for hairpins.

Inwardly she gasped from the shock of revelation; then she laughed to herself, half amused, half indignant.

The preposterous absurdity of the suggestion! But in her heart she realized that, in some undefined human fashion, Septimus Dix counted for something in her life.