"Leaves early to-morrow morning," he answered; "that is partly why I have come up to town. I don't want to see her again before she goes." Jim Langham rested elbows on the counter, and covered eyes with his hands. "Have you ever," he asked, "in the course of your existence, met with a bigger fool than me?"

"To be quite candid," said Gertie, "I don't think I have."

She fetched the cup from the back room, and brought it to him. He sipped at the hot beverage, and appeared to recover.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked courteously.

She laughed. "This is half a tobacconist's shop!"

"Quite so," remarked Jim Langham, taking a cigar from his case. "I say," he went on confidentially, taking the movable gas jet, "do you know anything about the Argentine?"

"Mr. Trew might tell you something about it if he were here. I don't take any interest in horse-racing."

"It's a place in South America," he said. "I've an idea of getting out there, and making a fresh start. But I'm in the state of mind that prevents me from knowing how to set about it. It would be a great kindness on your part to give me some assistance."

"I want all the money I've saved up."

He placed his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out sovereigns. Gertie, taking a newspaper, turned the pages to find the shipping advertisements.

"'The R. M. S. P.,'" she read. "I thought that meant you had to reply to an invitation. Oh, I see. Royal Mail Steam Packet. Here's the address. There's a boat leaving to-morrow. Would you like to catch that?"

"The earlier the better," he cried. "I must get away at once. Now, who can do it all?"

A lad came for a packet of cigarettes, and, as Gertie served him, Mr. Trew entered the doorway; his cheerful salutation caused Jim Langham to start. Trew announced, joyously, that he was up to the neck in trouble; for failing to see a young constable's warning in Oxford Street, he had been suspended from duty for a period of three days.

"As I told him, if a driver took notice of all the baby hands held up, why the 'bus would never reach Victoria. Howsomever, here I am; my own master for a time, and ready to make myself generally useless. What about a half-day excursion to Brighton to-morrow, little missy?"

"This, Mr. Trew, is Mr. Langham."

"I don't get on over and above first class," he said, "with a certain relative of yours, sir, but I never met a family yet that was all alike. Some white sheep in every flock."

Gertie explained Jim Langham's requirements, and Trew, placing his hat upon the counter, and admitting himself to be something of an authority on matters connected with the sea, brought his best intelligence to bear upon the subject. It was too late, he decided, to go down that evening to the steamship office, but a telegram might be sent, asking for a berth to be reserved, and Mr. Langham could go to the docks in the morning.

"It is absolutely imperative," declared the other urgently, "that I leave at the first possible moment."

"If the worst comes to the worst," said Mr. Trew, "you can ship as a stowaway. You come up on deck, third day out, and kneel at the captain's feet and sing a song about being an orphan. That, of course, would be a last resource."

Gertie discovered a telegram form, and on the instructions of Mr. Trew, filled it in; and Jim Langham assured her that he was more obliged than he could express in words. Mr. Trew left to arrange the dispatch of the message.

"I count myself extremely fortunate," said the other, "to have encountered you, Miss Higham. If you hear anything against me later on, I—I should feel grateful if you thought the best of me that you can. I wish," he went on, with an anxious air, "I wish I knew how to repay you."

"Don't make a fuss about trifles," she recommended.

He gazed at a picture of a well-attired youth smoking a cigar.

"I was a decent chap once," he said thoughtfully, "but that was long ago. Look here, Miss Higham! Henry—you know Henry?"

"I did know him." Turning her face away.

"He will be at Paddington Station tomorrow morning at ten. See him there. Put off every other engagement, and see him."

"There will be no use in doing that."

"There may be," he contradicted earnestly. "You've been very hard hit over this business, and I happen to know he wants to meet you, only that he is afraid of appearing intrusive. At ten o'clock at the arrival platform. May I say good-bye now? God bless you. I haven't much influence with Him, but I—I hope He'll be good to you!"

She came from behind the counter, and accompanied him to the swing doors.

"Whose ghost was it you thought you saw, Mr. Langham?"

"I must have been mistaken," he replied vaguely. "A shame to have worried you!"

All the comedy in life and some of the tragedy can be found at London railway stations, and only the fact that members of the staff are well occupied prevents them from furnishing shelves of bookstalls with records of their observation. The classes are there (an effort is being made to cancel one useful intermediate stage), presenting themselves, for the most part, in a highly-agitated condition of mind, with the result that officials acquire the methods of those who deal with the mentally unhinged; show themselves prepared for any display of eccentricity. Ever, as in life, you remark the people who arrive too soon, or too late; a few lucky ones come in the very nick of time. The last named are favourites, selected with no obvious reason by Fortune, and greatly envied by their contemporaries; it is usual for them to claim the entire credit to themselves. Apart from these, at the terminal stations where no barriers exist, are folk who make but little affectation of being passengers, and use the station as a playground, with engine and train for toys.

To Paddington at a quarter to ten in the morning came hurriedly, although there was no cause for hurry, Gertie Higham, escorted by Mr. Trew, both exceptionally costumed as befitting a notable occasion. Gertie's escort had a pair of driving-gloves, and he could not determine whether it looked more aristocratic to wear these or to carry them with a negligent air; he compromised on the departure platform by wearing one and carrying the other. The collector-dog trotted up with the box on his back, and both put in some coppers. They glanced at the giant clock.

"I wish," she said agitatedly, "that I could skip half an hour of my life."

"When you get to my age, little missy," remarked Trew, "you won't talk like that. Speaking personally, I can fairly say that if it wasn't for these new motors I sh'd like to live to be a 'underd. Now, let's jest make sure and certain about this train."

"I thought we had done so."

"May as well be on the safe side."

Mr. Trew left her at the bookstall to go on a journey in search of verification. She observed that he obtained news first from a junior porter, and worked upwards in the scale, with the evident intention of obtaining at last corroborative evidence from a director. The girl turned, and, gazing at the rows of books, found she could not read the titles clearly. One of the lads of the stall came with a book in his hand, recommending it to her notice; written by a new chap, he mentioned confidentially, and highly interesting. Gertie pulled herself together, and gave attention.

"Thank you," she said, "but it's the work of a cousin of mine."

The lad put Clarence Mills's novel down, and took up a pocket edition of "Merchant of Venice."

"In that case," he remarked, "I suppose it's no use showing you anything written by your Uncle William."

Trew came at a run, saving her the necessity of thinking of an answer. Mr. Henry was now on the arrival platform, right across where a finger pointed; Gertie was to wait until a scarlet handkerchief showed itself, and she begged him very earnestly not to give the signal unless it appeared to be well justified. A train, that had received no education in the art of reticence, came to an intervening set of lines, and Gertie's anxiety increased; she hurried down the platform to a point from which it was possible to see the meeting. Henry was engaged in conversation with a Great Western official; Mr. Trew, in going past, turned and, with a great air of wonder, recognized him. Gertie noted with satisfaction that Henry's greeting was hearty and unrestrained. Mr. Trew indicated a superior carriage standing near; she knew, from his gestures, that he was describing the uncovered conveyances recalled from his early youth.

"Oh, do make haste!" she urged under her breath.

They moved a few steps together, and Henry interrupted conversation with an inquiry. Mr. Trew, astonished to the extent of taking off his hat, gave a wave with it in the direction of Platform Number One, and Henry spoke eagerly. Mr. Trew took out his scarlet handkerchief, rubbed his face.

"Now," cried Henry, advancing delightedly to meet her, "I wonder what the chances were against our meeting here?"

"It is rather unexpected, isn't it?"

"Where," he hesitated, "where is Mr. Bulpert?"

"I really don't know," she replied, smiling. "We're not engaged any longer."

"Good news!" he cried with emphasis. "That is to say, it's good news if you wished the engagement to cease."

"I wasn't sorry."

He took her elbow, and glanced around. Mr. Trew was examining a set of milk churns with the air of an experienced dairyman.

"Isn't it amazing," said Henry, "how one lucky moment can change the appearance of everything? I've been feeling lately that nothing could possibly come right, and now—"

"We mustn't go on too fast," she interposed sagely, "because that only means more disappointment. You haven't heard yet about my father. Listen whilst I tell you about him."

Gertie waited, as she went on, for a relaxation in the pleasant hold on her arm, but this did not come. When she had said the last word, he nodded.

"I knew all about this long before you did," he said. "The information came from my sister-in-law. She had discovered the facts, and felt disappointed, I think, to find that I was not greatly impressed. Of course, you're not responsible for his actions any more than I can be held liable for the behaviour of Jim Langham. Jim is a much worse nut than your father; he hasn't any excuse for his conduct. Forged his sister's name to a big cheque, and, naturally, he has disappeared. I am giving him time to get away before I say anything about it to her."

"May be leaving England now, I suppose?"

"I hope so; but we needn't bother about him. Let us talk about ourselves, just as we used to do. Do you remember, dear girl?"

"I recollect it," she admitted. "Every moment, and every step, and every word. It will always be something good for me to look back upon, when I'm older."

He bent down to her. "We'll look back upon it together," he said affectionately.

"No!"

The official to whom Henry had been speaking begged pardon for interrupting; the train, he announced, would be about five minutes late. Gertie thanked him with a glance that, at any honestly managed exchange office, could be converted into bank notes.

"Has your view of me altered, then?" he asked.

"My view of you," she replied steadily, "is exactly the same that it always has been, ever since I first met you. I like you better—oh, a lot better—than any one else in the world, and I know that if you married me you'd do all you could to make me happy and comfortable. But I shouldn't be happy and comfortable. I've got to look forward; and when I do that, there's no use in shutting my eyes. I can see quite clearly what would happen. You'd have this large house down in the country, and you would ask friends there, and I should make blunders, and, sooner or later, you'd be certain to feel ashamed of me."

"I don't agree, dear," he said with emphasis. "Anyhow let us try the experiment. I am sure you overestimate the distance between us. Think how well we used to get along together."

"If life was all summer evenings and Primrose Hill," she remarked, "I might stand a chance. But it isn't. Your life is going to be that of a country gentleman in Berkshire; my life is going to be that of a well-paid worker in Great Titchfield Street."

"Wish I could find some method," he cried vehemently, "of giving events a twist. I'd much rather go on in my own profession. I'm making my way slowly, but I'm making it for myself, and I—I want you for company." He gave a gesture of appeal. "Can't you see how much it means?"

"We've got to take matters as they are, and not as we should like them to be. And it isn't as though I'd only got myself to think about. There's you. If I didn't care so much for you, it might be different."

"For the moment," protested Henry Douglass, "I find myself wishing, dear, that you were not quite so sensible. We will talk about this again, won't we? Let me call at Praed Street."

"Rather you didn't," said Gertie, "if you don't mind, because I shall never change my decision. And I wish I could explain how sorry I am it hasn't all come right." She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Give me a kiss before we say good-bye."

"We're to say a lot of other things to each other," he asserted determinedly, "but we are never to say that! Stay here, until I have seen these people into the railway omnibus. Please!"

The train came slowly; the engine with the air of one that had, in its time, hurt itself by violent contact with buffers; a line of porters edged the platform, ready to seize brass handles of compartments so soon as the train stopped. Gertie stood behind a trolley, and watched the crowd of alighting passengers. She caught sight of Lady Douglass and Miss Loriner: Lady Douglass carrying her small dog, and apparently more authoritative than ever in manner; her companion nursing a copy of Clarence's book. Henry and Rutley went to the rear van to see to the luggage, and presently returned; Rutley talked animatedly, Henry's features exhibited surprise. The railway omnibus was found; transfer of luggage began.

"My dearest, dearest!" cried Henry excitedly. "Listen to me; hear the great news Rutley has brought. My brother arrived home last night. The good fellow is safe and sound. He came down from here, from Paddington, and called at Ewelme to get some important papers he wanted. Heard Lady Douglass's voice—she happened to be annoyed about something—and left without seeing her. This means—don't you see?—that I have nothing now to bother about, excepting my work. And you!"

She had a difficulty in finding words. "Mr. Langham did not meet a ghost, then."

"I'm going to see the boat train off at Victoria," he went on rapidly, "and I shall be back at Praed Street in an hour. Less than an hour. We'll go out to lunch together."

"I'll wait for you there!" promised the happy girl.

THE END