hem in his breast-pocket walked out
of the room.

He passed down the stairs and into the avenue where the lamps were
lighted and which wore its usual somewhat deserted evening air. He walked
along quietly for some minutes. He did not quite know where he was going.
Having left a line for Baird explaining his absence, he had time to
spare. If he wished to be alone, he could be so until the hour of the
beginning of the lecture. For certain reasons it would be necessary that
he should see Baird before he went upon the platform. Yes, he must be
alone. His mood required it. He would go somewhere and look at the two
yellowed letters written twenty years ago. He did not know why it was
that he felt he must look at them, but he knew he must. They would
satisfy no curiosity if he felt it, and he had none. Perhaps it was the
old tragic tender feeling for Margery which impelled him. Perhaps he
unconsciously longed to read that this man had loved her--that she had
not given her life for nothing--that the story had not been one of common
caprice and common treachery. As he walked his varied thoughts surged
through his brain disconnectedly. Every now and then he involuntarily put
his hand to his breast-pocket to feel the envelope. Once there crossed
his mind a memory of the woman whose boy had died and who dare not let
herself recall him, and so be swept back into the black maelstrom of woe.
To-night, with these things on his breast, it was not twenty years since
he had heard Margery's dying cries--it was last night--last night--and
the odour of the pine-trees was in his nostrils--the sough of their
boughs in his ears.

He stopped near the entrance to the grounds of the Smithsonian Institute.
They were as secluded as a private park at this time, but here and there
was a seat and a light. He turned in and found his way to the most
retired part where he could find these things--a bench to sit down on, a
light to aid him to read. He heard his own breathing as he sat down; he
felt the heavy, rapid pulsations of his heart, as he took the papers from
his breast his hand was shaking, he could not hold it still. He took out
more papers than the envelope Stamps had given him. He drew forth with
this the letter which had arrived from Baird, and which he had been
reading when the messenger arrived. He had abstractedly put it in his
pocket. It fell from his shaking hand upon the ground at his feet, and he
let it lie there, forgetful of its exist