an end to his feigning of repose and hopefulness.
That he did but feign, Harvey Munden felt assured; signs of a troubled
conscience, or at all events of restless nerves, were evident in all his
doing and conversing; now he once more made frank revelation of his
weakness.

'There's the devil to pay. She won't take money. She's got a lawyer, and is
going to bring me into court. I've authorised Reckitt to offer as much as
five thousand pounds,--it's no good. He says her lawyer has evidently
encouraged her to hope for enormous damages, and then she'll have the
satisfaction of making me the town-talk. It's all up with me, Munden. My
hopes are vanished like--what is it in Dante?--_il fumo in aere ed in aqua
la schiuma_!'

Smoking a Cavour, Munden lay back in the shadow of the pergola, and seemed
to disdain reply.

'Your advice?'

'What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- do
her worst!'

Shergold winced.

'We mustn't forget that it's all my fault.'

'Yes, just as it's your own fault you didn't die on the day of your birth!'

'I must raise the offer--'

'By all means; offer ten thousand. I suppose a jury would give her two
hundred and fifty.'

'But the scandal--the ridicule--'

'Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom and
save your life.'

'That's one way of looking at it. I half believe it might be effectual.'

He kept alone for most of the day. In the evening, from nine to ten, he
went upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunk
in a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short,
nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And when
the next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, a
waiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started for
London,' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean to
do is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of _that_ is
too much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a few
days.'

The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt. His next letter from
Shergold came in about ten days; it informed him very briefly that the
writer was 'about to be married,' and that in less than a week he would
have started with his wife on a voyage round the world. Harvey did not
reply; indeed, the letter contained no address.

One day in November he was accosted at the c