m no
question, and then, "Of course I'm awfully pleased, but I'm dog tired!
She's had a bad time, poor girl--but it's all right now, thank God! Come
in and have a drink, Hugo."

But Elwyn had shaken his head. Again he had gripped his old friend's
hand, as he had done a week before, and again he had muttered the
necessary words of congratulation. Then, turning on his heel, he had
gone home, and spent the rest of the night in desultory packing.

* * * * *

That was just seven years ago, and Elwyn had never seen Fanny's child.
He had been away from England for over a year, and when he came back he
learned that the Bellairs were away, living in the country, where they
had taken a house for the sake of their boy.

As time had gone on, Elwyn and his friends had somehow drifted apart, as
people are apt to drift apart in the busy idleness of the life led by
the fortunate Bellairs and Elwyns of this world. Fanny avoided Hugh
Elwyn, and Elwyn avoided Fanny, but they two only were aware of this. It
was the last of the many secrets which they had once shared. When he
and Bellair by chance met alone, all the old cordiality and even the old
affection seemed to come back, if not to Elwyn then to the other man.

And now the child, to whom it seemed not only Fanny but Jim Bellair also
was so devoted, was ill, and he, Hugh Elwyn, had been the last to hear
of it. He felt vaguely remorseful that this should be so. There had been
years when nothing that affected Bellair could have left him
indifferent, and a time when the slightest misadventure befalling Fanny
would have called forth his eager, helpful sympathy.

How strange it would be--he quickened his footsteps--if this child, with
whom he was at once remotely and intimately concerned, were to die! He
could not help feeling, deep down in his heart, that this would be, if a
tragic, then a natural solution of a painful and unnatural problem--and
then, quite suddenly, he felt horribly ashamed of having allowed himself
to think this thought, to wish this awful wish.

Why should he not go now, at once, to Manchester Square, and inquire as
to the little boy's condition? It was not really late, not yet midnight.
He could go and leave a message, perhaps even scribble a line to Jim
Bellair explaining that he had come round as soon as he had heard of the
child's illness.

II

When Hugh Elwyn reached the familiar turning whence he could see the
Bellairs'