She looked into the street below.

How long would she live afterwards, she wondered, if she threw herself down! She began even to realise the state of mind which breeds suicides, the brooding over a morrow too hateful to be faced.
As she still stood there, the silence of the street below was broken.

A motor-car swung round the corner and swept past the side of the hotel.
She caught at the curtain as she recognised its occupants.

Richard Lane was driving, and by his side sat her husband.

The car was covered with dust, both men seemed weary as though they had been out all night.