Hal spoke very little on the journey. A nameless dread weighed on her spirit, and a haunting fear for Lorraine. She was oppressed by a sense of deep sadness for the brilliant, succesful woman she had loved since her school days, who was now, after all her triumphs, alone in that little foreign village, caught in a maze of tangles and perplexities which offered no peaceful solution.

She could not understand Alymer's part at all, but she was convinced Lorraine's absorbing devotion to him was not reciprocated in like manner. If Lorraine learnt this as soon as she recovered, what did the future hold for her again but more vain dreams, and bitter hopes that could never see fulfilment?

She felt a little pitifully that life was very hard and difficult, even when one had a fine courage and will to face it; and a leaden pall of sorrow seemed to fold itself round her.

What of Dudley and his hopeless love? Ethel and her inconsolable grief? Sir Edwin, and his secret bitterness? the gaunt music-teacher and her barren, joyless life?

Across her mind passed some lines, that had a strong attraction for her:

"So manny gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, And just the art of being kind Is all the sad world needs."

Ah! in truth it was a sad world first of all; a sad, sad world in need of kindness and comfort. One could but go on trying to be kind, trying to be strong.

It was the only thing in a life of pitfalls and easily made mistakes, to just march straight forward - eyes front - and not let anything daunt permanently. She felt, more profoundly than ever, it was not wise to turn aside, looking to right and left, questioning overmuch of right and wrong, probing into the actions of others.

Each human being was as a soldier in a vast army, and all were there under the same colours, led by the same general, to bear, with what courage they could, the fortunes of war. Two might be standing together, and one be wounded and the other untouched; many disabled, and many unhurt; some left on the field to die, others found and nursed back to life.

But the soldier was not there to question. If a comrade fell, it was no concern of his how he fell - his concern was to try and help him to safety, then go back and fight again, undismayed if his place was but a little insignificant one in the smoke and dust, unseen by any but a near neighbour perhaps as insignificant as himself.

That was the true spirit of the great soldier, whether he was in the ranks, lost in the smoke, or whether, on a magnificent charger, he led gloriously for all the world to see.

She remembered the change in Dudley, which had led him so quickly to respond to her cry, and refrain from judging. He was seeing things in that light also, learning to fight his own fight as pluckily as he could, and only to look upon the warfare of others as one ready to help them if it chanced that he was able - learning in place of rules and precepts, "just the art of being kind."

Well, together perhaps they could help Lorraine - if she came out of this last encounter bruised and broken.

Then they arrived, and she and Lord Denton hastened down the short road to the little green-shuttered house. At the sound of the latch on the gate the door opened quietly, and Jean, with tears streaming down her face, came towards them, choking back gasping sobs.

Hal stood still a second, and then ran forward blindly with outstretched hands.

"She is better, Jean - say she is better. Oh, she must be, she must; she wired yesterday to say there was great improveent."

Jean broke down into helpless weeping as she sobbed out:

"She died this morning at six o'clock."

For one moment Hal seemed too stunned to understand; then she swayed, and fell heavily into Denton's arms.

Later when she had recovered, Jean told them of the restless, nerve-racking night; of the priest's visit, and of the fast-ebbing strength gathered together to write some message the nurse had taken to the post office. After that extreme exhaustion had set in, greatly aggravated by the mental stress, and they could only watch her sinking from hour to hour.

"She only roused once more," Jean said, "and that was to try and write a message for you. I have it there," and she produced a little folded note.

In faint, tremulous words Hal read:

"Good-bye, darling Hal. It is hard to be without you now, but you will inderstand why I sent the message. I want to tell you it has never been Alymer's fault; do not blame him. I ask it of you. At the last hour I have made what reparation I could. Don't grieve for me. I have made so many mistakes, and now I am too tired to go on. Give my dear, dear love to Alymer, and say good-bye to Flip and mother. I am not unhappy now - only very, very tired. Your own Lorry."

For the first time since she had recovered from her faint, Hal broke down, and Jean and Denton went quietly away, knowing it would be better for her afterwards, and left her sobbing her heart out over her letter.

Two days later, flying the colours of a great victory, and flushed with the pleasure of warm congratulations poured upon him from all sides, Alymer Hermon stepped out upon the little station.

He had never doubted the truth of the message, and he carried his head a little higher and his shoulders a little squarer, proud and glad to come to Lorraine with the news of his greatest success, and tell her of the proud position he had won almost solely through her. For had she not first imbued him with ambition and the real desire to achieve, and then, at exactly the right moment, procured him the first little success that meant so much?

The instant he knew the great case was won, he had dashed out of the court, scribbled her a hurried wire, and driven frantically to Charing Cross, meditating a special train to Dover, if he were too late. He was not, though the guard was just about to give the signal for departure, and the boat-train bore him from the station, full of that glad consciousness of a great achievement, to carry the news instantly to her feet.

On the little station in Brittany Denton was waiting for him. And when Alymer saw him the light faded out of his eyes, and the smile from his lips.

"She died before we got there," Denton told him. "We daren't let you know, because she sent that message, on purpose to give you your chance in the case."" Then, very kindly: "Sit down, old chap. There's no hurry. Wait and rest a while here."

Alymer sat down on the little wooden station bench, and buried his face in his hands.



CHAPTER XLV

It would seem sometimes that Life has a way of keeping the balance between joy and pain, by making that which is a source of deepest sorrow to one the unlooked-for instrument of great joy to another.

It was so with the sorrow that came down like a cloud upon Hal's spirit, while she was yet striving bravely not to allow herself to fret over Sir Edwin's perfidy.

It was not until after Hermon's arrival that the announcement of Lorraine's death was sent to the papers. After an anxious consultation, Hald and Denton had decided she would have expressly wished nothing to be done which might bring the news to Alymer before his case was over, and so, while making all preparations for the funeral, they refrained from any announcement in the home papers. Directly he arrived, the notice was dispatched.

Ethel Hayward, returning from her holiday to the dreary, empty Holloway flat, read it in the train as she journeyed. Instantly her mind was full of Hal. She felt that in losing the one great woman friend of her life Hal would seem to have lost mother, sister, and friend in one.

She went home to the emptiness of the flat, with her heart so full of aching sympathy that some of the bitterness of her own loss was softened. On her sitting-room table was a beautiful array of flowers. She looked at them with soft eyes, believing Hal had sent them, and her tenderness made her long to hold the girl in her arms and try to bring her a little comfort.

After a restless, troubled half-hour, she decided to go to her. She remembered it was the evening Dudley usually spent at the Imperial Institute, and she thought it almost certain Hal would be alone.

She dreaded going if Dudley was likely to be there, as the constraint between them was a misery to her, but she believed he was obliged to be out, remembering how he had always been engaged on Fridays during his engagement, and she took her courage in her hands for Hal's sake, and went to the Bloomsbury rooms for the first time.

The maid who opened the door was just going out, and being somewhat hurried, did not trouble to note whether she asked for Mr. Pritchard or Miss Pritchard, merely standing for her to come in, and then showing her into the sitting-room without properly announcing her, she hastened away.

So Ethel unexpectedly found herself face to face with Dudley, alone.

He was so astonished, that for a moment he seemed unable to rise, merely gazing at her with incredulous eyes, as if he thought he must be dreaming.

For the past hour he had sat with a book on his knee, without having read a line, for all the time his thoughts had been with her. He knew she had returned that night to her empty, desolate home. He had sent the flowers up himself, to try and mitigate the emptiness and lack of welcome.

He had longed to go to the station to meet her, if only to look after her luggage and see her safely into a cab. He hated to think of her arriving alone, and departing alone to that empty flat. His utter helplessness to do anything for her, when all his soul ached to do all, tore at his heart, and thrust mercilessly upon him again and again his blindness and folly in the past.

And then suddenly, in the midst of it, without any warning, she stood there in the room, looking at him with startled, abashed eyes.

No wonder, with a sense of non-comprehension, joy leapt to his own, transforming the white, unhappy gravity of his face to swift, questioning eagerness; while at the same time he breathed tensely, "Ethel!... you!"

It was the first time he had ever used her Christian name, and in spite of her confusion she could not fail to hear the ring of gladness, of intense, almost unbelievable joy.

It sent the blood rushing to her white cheeks, and made her heart beat wildly. She moved forward a little unsteadily.

"I saw about Miss Vivian's death to-day, and I was afraid Hal would be all alone fretting... so I came to see -"

She broke off. Something like a sudden appeal in his eyes was unnerving her.

Dudley only heard vaguely what she said.

As she came forward he had seen that she was rather overcome; he had seen the quick scarlet in her face, followed by a striking parlor, and the bewildered surprise in her eyes.

What was it Hal had said that evening before she left? He could not remember, but he knew it meant that she did not think Ethel indifferent to him as he believed.

He knew she had meant more, but he had not dared to dwell upon it.

He stood up, but did not move towards her. Instead, he just stood looking, looking into her eyes. Hers fell, and again the quick colour came and went.

"Hal is not here," he said simply; "she went to Miss Vivian last week."

"Oh, I am glad. I was afraid she had not had time. I thought, when I saw the flowers..." An idea seemed to strike her suddenly. She looked at him, and her eyes were full of a question she could not ask. "I thought only Hal knew I should be returning to-day."

"I knew," he said simply.

"Did you... did you..." she was at a loss to finish.

This hesitating nervousness was new to him. He had never seen her before other than calmly self-possessed. It called, with swift-calling, to his natural masculine strength and masculine protectiveness. It enabled him to grow sure of himself, and strong.

"Yes, I sent the flowers," he answered. "I wanted badly to come to the station to meet you, but I was afraid you might think it an impertinence." He came a little nearer. "Sould you have thought so?"

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, and she said shyly:

"I should have thought it very kind of you."

"I am always wanting to do things for you," he said, "and I am always afraid I shall only vex you. And I wouldn't vex you for the world," in a low, fervent voice.

Again she gave him a swift, shy, questioning glance, and he grew bolder still.

He came closer, and stood beside her.

"Most of all, I want to tell you that I love you with all my heart and soul and strength, and, until this moment, I have been afraid that that would vex you too."

She raised her eyes then, swimming in sudden tears of gladness.

"But it doesn't?... " he said eagerly, "you... you... Oh, Ethel! is it possible you would like me to say it?"

"It has been possible a long time, Dudley, but I did not think it would ever be said."

He took her hands in his and kissed first one and then the other. For the moment he was too overwhelmed at the suddenness of his joy to understand it.

"I thought you despised me," he breathed. "It did not seem possible you could do anything else; but Hal said I was wrong."

She smiled faintly.

"Yes; Hal knew," she told him. "I think she has known some time." Then she seemed to sway a little.

"You are tired out," he exclaimed in quick commiseration. "What a brute I am, letting you stand all this time, after your long journey too! I have told myself over and over how I would take care of you if I might, and this is how I begin! Forgive me -."

He gently pushed her towards his own big chair, and when she had sunk down in it, fetched a cushion and a footstool. She leaned back wearily, looking up at him with eyes that were full of deep joy, if not yet emancipated from their long, long vigil of sorrow.

"Is this all true, or am I dreaming? Yesterday - an hour ago - I thought it could never happen at all."

"I too."

He was kneeling on one knee beside her now, holding her hand against his face for the comfort of it.

"I was thinking of you when you came. I am always thinking of you. My whole life is like a long thought of you. I was afraid it would never become any more. Since I grew to know myself better, it has never seemed possible any one like you could care for such as I."

She gave him her other hand confidingly.

"I think I have always cared, Dudley. Beside Basil, there has never been any one else who counted very much at all."

It was good to be sitting there together by a fireside. So good indeed that it swept everything away that had stood between them, with swift, generous sweeping. There had been nothing real in the barrier, scarcely anything that needed explaining, only the foolish imaginings of two hearts that had become imbued with wrong impressions.

"I thought I loved Doris," he told her, still caressing her hand; "but afterwards it was like a pale fancy to my love for you."

"I was terrified lest she should wreck both your lives," She answered. "She cared so much for money, and the things money can buy. Without it, she might have grown bitter and hard and reckless. With it, she wil grow kinder, I think. She felt Basil's death very much. She shed the most genuine tears she has ever shed in her life. Dudley, if Basil had known that this was coming, it would have been a great comfort to him."

"He did know."

"He knew!..." in surprise. "How could he?"

"I told him. I saw he was fretting very much about you, and I guessed what was in his mind. I told him I loved you better than my life; and he said: "Thank God, it will all come right some day."

"Ah, I am glad that he knew. Dear Basil, dear Basil. If he had been less splendid, Dudley, I think I should have taken my own life when he died and left me alone. But in the face of courage like his, one could not be a coward."

Later Dudley took her home. At the door he asked her pleadingly:

"May I came in for a moment? I want to see the flat as it looks now."

She led the way, and they stood together in the little sitting-room where Basil had lived and died, and where Dudley's flowers now shed a fragrance of welcome.

She buried her face in the delicate petals, with memories, and thoughts, and feelings too deep for words.

"It feels almost as if his spirit were here with us now," he said softly. "He was so sure he was only going to a grander and wider life. I think he must have been right; and that to-night he knows."

Tears were in her eyes again. The loss was so recent still - the memory so painful. He drew her to him, and kissed them away.

"That night, Ethel, that first, terrible night when you were alone, it nearly killed me to have to go away and leave you, to feel I could not do anything at all. You must let me comfort you doubly now to make up for it. You must come to me quickly." She smiled softly, and he added: "It would have been Basil's wish, too. He hated the office as much as I do. Tell them to-morrow that you're not coming any more."

Her smile deepened at his boyishness.

"There are certain hard-and-fast rules to be observed about leaving. I'm afraid they won't waive them for you."

"Well, tell them you are going to be married... You are going to be married, aren't you?..." for a moment he was almost like Hal. "Well, why don't you answer? I want to know."

"I haven't made up my mind sufficiently yet," with a low, happy laugh.

"Then I must make it up for you."

His manner changed again to one of wondering, absorbing tenderness. Hal had been right, as usual. Under the man's surface-narrowness and superiority was a deep, true heart that had only been waiting the hour of its great emancipation. He took her in his arms and kissed her again and again.

"Child," he breathed, "haven't I waited long enough? Every hour of the last few months, since I knew, has been like a year. Don't make me leave you here alone one moment longer than is necessary."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

So it happened that when Hal came back to a dreary, empty, joyless London, an unexpected gladness was waiting for her.

The last few days had almost broken her spirit. The pathos of that lonely, far-off grave, in the little alien churchyard, where they tenderly left the remains of the beautiful, brilliant woman who had been so much in her life for so long, seemed more than she could bear.

They three had stood together, representing her richness in friendship, her poverty in blood ties. The wire to her mother had only brought the reply from some one in London that she was travelling in the South of Italy, and could not possibly arrive in time.

Alymer still seemed almost stunned. He had scarcely spoken since Danton told him what had happened. At first Hal had declined to see him at all, but in the end Denton, with his shrewd common sense, had talked her into a kindlier mood.

When they came back from the churchyard she had gone to him in the little sitting-room, where he sat alone, with bowed head. He stood up when she came in, but he did not speak. He waited for her to say what she would, with a look of quiet misery in his eyes that touched her heart.

For the first time she saw how changed he was. There seemed nothing of the old boyishness left. Only a quiet, grave, deeply suffering man.

She had no conception that she, personally, added every hour and every moment to that suffering. She did not know he was enduring a bitter sense of having lost her for ever, as well as the friend and benefactress he had undoubtedly loved very dearly, if not with the same passionate love that she had known for him.

But he only stood before her there, very straight and very still, and with that old, quiet, ineradicable dignity which never failed him.

"Lorraine left a little written message for me," she said to him.

She paused a moment, and her eyes wandered away out to the little garden, with its last fading summer beauty yielding already to autumn. And so she did not see the expression in his fine face when he ventured to look at her. She did not know that because of his hopeless love, and withal his quiet courage and quiet pain, at that moment he looked even more splendidly a man than perhaps he had ever done before.

Had life been kinder, he would have crossed the space between them in one step, and folded her in such an embrace as would have lost her slim form entirely in his enfolding bigness. He would have given her a love, and a lover, such as falls to the lot of but few women.

And she stood there, with her head half turned away; with sad eyes and drooping lips that went to his heart; her mind full of her dead friend, and scarcely a glance for him.

"She said I was not to blame you for anything, and she told me to give you her dear, dear love."

He winced visibly, but stood his ground.

"Thank you," he said, in a very low voice.

Then, with a sudden, longing triumphing over all:

"I prefer to take the blame upon myself, but even then I hope some day you will find it possible to forgive me."

"I shall never forget how much Lorraine loved you," was all the poor hope she gave him.

"Will that make it possible for us to remain friends?"

"Yes; I hope so." She gave him her hand with an old-fashioned solemnity. "For Lorraine's sake," she said very simply, and then left him.

He turned with a stifled groan, and, leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece, buried his face in his hands.

Yet in that painful hour, out of all the tragic mistakes of her life, Lorraine might have gleaned this gladness. In that hour he was nearer than he had ever been before to the man she had striven to make him; for, mercifully for all mankind, there is a "power outside ourselves," which out of wrong, and weakness, and pain can bring forth good.

The sad trio returned to London the following day, and Hal wondered forlornly if Dudley would leave his office early to come and meet her.

When she stepped out on the platform he and Ethel were standing together, looking for her. Then they saw her, and Ethel came forward first, holding out both hands, with a subdued light in her face, that made Hal pause and wonder.

"How did you know? It was nice of you to come," she said, with another question in her eyes.

"Dudley told me, dear. I have been thinking of you so much."

Then Dudley stepped up to them, and in his face, too, was this subdued gladness.

Hal looked from one to the other.

"Have you?..." she began, and paused uncertainly.

"Yes, dear"; and Ethel blushed charmingly. "I am going to be your sister, so I thought you would let me begin at once, and come to meet you, and try to comfort you a little."

"Oh," said Hal, drawing a deep breath; "and I thought I was never going to be glad about anything again."



CHAPTER XLVI

It is necessary to take but a cursory glance at the events that followed. Life flowed smoothly enough in its way, but it flowed towards higher and greater achievements for some, and that can only mean a story of obstacles, and drawbacks and difficulties sturdily overcome.

For the three inmates of the Cromwell Road flat it held many prizes.

Alymer Hermon's career continued to advance by leaps and bounds. The "taking up" by Sir Philip Hall became quickly an actual fact, and he was soon easily first among the juniors. What he lacked in years and experience his striking presence and personal charm supplied, and his calm gravity and self-possession went far to counteract his youthful appearance.

Dick Bruce finished his great novel, and though it was not quite the jumble about vegetables and babies he had prophesied, it was considered the most original book of the year, and brought him instantaneous recognition and fame.

Quin inherited some money, and built a wonderful East End Club House that is all his own, and is as the apple of his eye.

If the great solution of life is to find one's true environment, he has at any rate found his; and in finding it knows a happiness, even amid the squalid poverty of Shoreditch, such as is found by few.

In the meantime Hal continued to work and be independent. When Ethel and Dudley married, they tried hard to persuade her to live with them, but she had already bespoken a smaller sitting-room with her old landlady, Mrs. Carr, and made up her mind to live there.

Later, when Dudley began to add to his income, they begged her to give up her work, but she was obdurate, again expressing certain views on the boon of steady occupation they could not gainsay.

"It is so boring sometimes," Ethel remonstrated, and she answered:

"Not so boring as idleness in the long run, and having to make up your mind each day what you are going to do next. The girls who only enjoy themselves without work little know what they miss in never waking up in the morning to say, 'Hurray! this is a holiday.' No! give me my work and my play well balanced, and I'll turn them into happiness."

It was months before Alymer dared to speak to her of love. It had taken him long to win her to the old fooling again; and in a sudden gladness at some little remark or touch that seemed to show him he was truly forgiven for his own sake, he told her the story of his love, and his long waiting.

Hal was very taken aback, and a little unhappy, but when she had convinced him it was really quite hopeless, he forced himself back to the old comradeship, and took up his self-imposed burden of waiting once more.

Then followed a period of rapid successes, during which Hal told him seriously he must now make a choice among the bevy of beauty, wealth, and lineage at his disposal.

"You really ought, you know," she said, "out of consideration for all the poor things left hoping against hope, and the numbers that are yearly added to them!"

"I have made my choice," he answered; "it is not my fault about the vain hopes. It is the obstinacy of one woman, who is keeping the others in the unfortunate condition you describe."

But she only smiled lightly, and put him off again, concluding with:

"I should be frightened out of my life at possessing anything so beauteous and attractive in the way of a husband."

So Hermon worked on, and waited, believing in his star.

Yet there were times when the apparent hopelessness of it weighed heavily on his mind - times when the very lustre of his success seemed only to mock him, because of that one thing he craved in vain.

It was so when the greatest achievement of his life came to his hands.

It was given him to plead for a woman's life against a charge of poisoning her husband, pitting his youth and slender experience against the greatest advocate of the Crown. The case caused a great stir, and with a growing wonderment and pride she hardly dared to account for. Hal followed the newspaper reports day by day.

The evening before the speech for the defence he came to her. She greeted him as usual, saying little about his present notoriety, but she noticed that he looked careworn, as if the strain were becoming too much for him; and then suddenly he stated his errand.

"I want you to come to the court to-morrow, Hal. I - I - have a feeling I want you to be there when I am speaking. Will you come?"

She looked up doubtfully.

"Why do you want me?"

"I hardly know. I mean to save this woman if I can. She did not give the poison. I am quite certain of it; but we can't prove it absolutely. We can only appeal in such a way to the jury that they will feel the case is not merely not proven against her, but that she is innocent. I think it would inspire me more than anything if you were there." He paused, then added: "I love you so much, Hal, I feel as if I shall save her life if you are there."

Hal looked touched, and agreed to go if he would arrange everything, and telephone to her what time to arrive.

The next day she went to the court with the card he had given, and found herself received with the utmost deference, and ushered at once to a seat reserved for her.

A few minutes afterwards Alymer stood up to make his great speech, and then Hal heard a subdued murmur around her, and saw that the judge was watching him with some interest and expectancy.

It was the first time she had seen him in his wig and gown, in court, and her heart began to beat strangely. She felt suddenly and unaccountably incensed with the women all round, who whispered and gazed. "What was he to them anyway! How idiotic of them to murmur to each other how splendid he looked! What did he care for their approval?"

Her heart carried her a little farther. "What is he to you?..." it asked. She felt a sudden warm glow of pride, and her eyes grew very soft as she watched him.

Then he began to speak, and it seemed as if everything in heaven and earth has paused to listen. Surely there was no big thoroughfare with hurrying multitudes just outside, no continual stream of noisy, hurrying traffic; no busy newspaper offices awaiting each flying message - nothing anywhere but that crowded hall, that white-faced accused woman waiting for death or freedom, that man in his beauty of manhood and power straining every nerve to save her.

An hour passed. No one spoke, no one moved. Sometimes a sob, hastily stifled, broke the oppresive hush, sometimes a stifled cough.

Alymer rarely raised his voice, for his was no impassioned, heated declaration. It was a magnificent piece of quiet oratory, which carried every one along by its earnestness and convincing calm, and was intensified by the look upon his noble, resolute face.

After a time every one knew instinctively that he had won. The tension grew less taut and more emotinal. Women began to weep softly and restrainedly. Men cleared their throats again and again. Some one sitting next to Hal apparently knew him, and knew her.

"My God," he breathed in her ear, "he's magnificent. He's saved her. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. I'm proud to be his friend."

Hal's eyes suddenly filled with tears. She began to feel dazed and faint. It had been too much for her, and the relief was overwhelming.

She thought of Lorraine, and her heart swelled to think he had so gloriously fulfilled her vast hopes, and crowned all she had done for him. She longed that she might have been there, and then felt mysteriously that she not only was there, but was speaking to her. In a vague, unreal, mystical way, Lorraine was pleading with her to give him his happiness.

She looked again, confusedly, at the big, strong, calm man; and something that had been growing in her heart for months took shape and form.

What did the other women matter? He was hers - hers - hers. Why stop to question or demur? What did anything matter but that he had loved her so long and faithfully; and that at last she loved him?

In a stress of unendurable emotion, she got up unsteadily, and left the court.

A quarter of an hour later, Alymer finished his speech, and sat down instantly turning his head to look for her. Instead of the familiar, eager face of the first hour, he saw the empty space, and his overwrought mind sank to a dull level of bitter disappointment.

She was not impressed, then - not even interested enough to stay until the end. Oh, what did it matter? She was hard - hard, he was a fool to love her so.

The jury went away and came back with their verdict of "Not guilty."

There was a rush and buzz of congratulations. He smiled, because he had to smile, and grasped outstretched hands because he had to grasp them. The moment it was possible to get away, he walked blindly and hurriedly to the entrance, and got into a taxi, before the waiting crowd had had time to recognise him.

"Where to?" a policeman asked him, and for a moment he was at a loss to know. Then he gave Hal's address. "Better have it out and done with," was his thought. Once for all he would make her tell him if it was hopeless, and if she said yes, he would go away and try to forget her in another country.

When he was shown into Hal's little sitting-room, he found her crouching on a footstool in the firelight, before the fire. He stood a moment or two and looked at her, and then he said in a slightly harsh voice:

"I suppose you hurried away because you were bored. I thought you would have stayed until the end. I was a fool. Nothing I do ever has interested you, or ever will."

Hal did not look round. She was staring into the flames, with her chin resting in her hands. When he paused she said calmly:

"I can't hear what you say so far away."

He moved across the room and stood on the hearth beside her, towering above her, with his eyes on the opposite wall.

"I don't know why I came here at all," he continued; "but it didn't seem any use going anywhere else. Why did you run away in the middle! Did you want to punish my presumption for wishing to try and distinguish myself before you, as well as save a woman's life and honour?"

A little smile shone in Hal's eyes, where the firelight caught them.

"I can't hear what you say, right up there, near the ceiling."

He looked down at the dark shapely head, and something in her poise and in her voice made his heart suddenly begin to thump rather wildly.

"I haven't got a beanstalk," she added.

He leaned a little towards her.

"And if you had?" he asked tensely.

"If I had, I would perhaps climb up it."

He leaned lower still, his heart thumping yet more wildly.

"If you climbed up a ladder like that, you would be bound to climb into my arms."

"Well - and what if I did?" she said.

THE END.