im indeed--and it was the first kiss she had ever given him;
but he felt her stiffen in his hold even as she did it. And the next
moment, almost with passion, she spoke--

"I wish Rupert wouldn't play that thing! He knows--he knows--that I can't
bear it!"

"What is it?" Mordaunt asked in surprise.

She answered him with a laugh that did not ring quite true. "It is the
'_Aubade a la Fiancee_.' He is only playing it to torment us. Let us go
in and stop him!"

She turned inwards with the words, disengaging herself from his arm as
casually as she might have pushed aside a chair. Mordaunt followed her in
silence. There were no further confidences between them that night.

CHAPTER V

DE PROFUNDIS

It was pouring with rain, and the man with the flute at the corner
shivered and pulled his rags more closely about him. He had not been
lucky that day, or, indeed, for many days, as the haggard eyes that
stared out of his white face testified.

He had spent the past three nights in the open, but to-night--to-night
was cruelly wet. He questioned with himself what he should do.

In his pocket was that which might procure a night's lodging or a meagre
supper; but it would not supply both. He had to decide between the two,
unless he elected to go on playing till midnight in the drenching rain on
the chance of augmenting his scanty store.

Though it was June, he was chilled to the bone. In the intervals between
his flute-playing his teeth chattered. He looked horribly ill, but no one
had noticed that. Men who wander about the streets with musical
instruments seldom have a prosperous appearance. Passers-by may fling
them a copper if they have one handy, but otherwise they do not even look
at them. There are so many of these luckless ones, and each looks more
wretched than the last. Most of them look degraded also, but, save for
his rags, this man did not. There was a foreign air about him, but he did
not look the type of foreigner that lives upon English charity. There was
nothing hang-dog about him. He only looked exhausted and miserable.

At the suggestion of a policeman he abandoned his corner. After all, he
was doing no good there. It was not worth a protest. He turned and
trudged up a side-street, with head bent to the rain.

It was growing late, high time to seek some shelter for the night if that
were his intention. But he pressed on aimlessly with dragging feet.
Perhaps he had not yet decided whether to peris