preacher had advanced the astounding theory that it is
better to give to nine impostors than to refuse the one just man; nay,
more, he had reminded his hearers of the old legend that Christ
sometimes comes, in the guise of a beggar, to the wealthy.

She took five shillings out of her purse, and put them, not in the
woman's hand, but in that of the little child.

"Thank you," said the woman dully. "May God bless you!" That was all,
but Agnes went on, vaguely comforted.

* * * * *

And now at last, helped on her way by more than one good-natured
wayfarer, she reached the quiet, but shabby Chelsea street where
Ferrier lived. The fog had drifted towards the river, and in the
lamplight Agnes Barlow was not long in finding a large open door, above
which was inscribed: "The Thomas More Studios."

Agnes walked timorously through into the square, empty, gas-lit hall,
and looked round her with distaste. The place struck her as very ugly
and forlorn, utterly lacking in what she had always taken to be the
amenities of flat life--an obsequious porter, a lift, electric light.

How strange of Ferrier to have told her that he lived in a building that
was beautiful!

Springing in bold and simple curves, rose a wrought-iron staircase,
filling up the centre of the narrow, towerlike building. Agnes knew that
Ferrier lived high up, somewhere near the top.

She waited a moment at the foot of the staircase. She was gathering up
her strength, throwing behind her everything that had meant life,
happiness, and--what signified so very much to such a woman as
herself--personal repute.

But, even so, Agnes did not falter in her purpose. She was still
possessed, driven onward, by a passion of jealous misery.

But, though her spirit was willing, ay, and more than willing, for
revenge, her flesh was weak; and as she began slowly walking up the
staircase she started nervously at the grotesque shapes cast by her own
shadow, and at the muffled sounds of her own footfalls.

Half-way up the high building the gas-jets burned low, and Agnes felt
aggrieved. What a mean, stupid economy on the part of the owners of this
strange, unnatural dwelling-place.

How dreadful it would be if she were to meet any one she knew--any one
belonging to what she was already unconsciously teaching herself to call
her old, happy life! As if in cruel answer to her fear, a door opened,
and an old man, clad in a big shabby fur coat and