s watch. It was twenty past eight--all but a minute. In
less than twenty minutes he had disposed of and finally settled one of
the most important affairs of life. Was this the action of a sane man?

During the last few days he had gradually been drifting towards this,
just drifting. He had been dreaming of it all the time, dreaming in that
part of his brain where the mind works out its problems underground,
waiting until the higher world of consciousness calls for them, and they
are flung out into the open daylight--solved. A solution found without
real solid premeditation.

Was the solution to his life's problem a good one, or a bad one? Was it
true to his past life, or was it false? Can a man successfully live out
a plan that he has only dimly outlined in a dream and swiftly finished
in a passion of pity?

It was Middleton's duty as host to go into the drawing-room. He must go
at once and think afterwards. And yet he lingered. She might not claim
him. She too might have been moved only by a momentary emotion! But
what right had he to be speculating on the chance of release? It was a
bad beginning!

On the floor lay a letter. The Warden had not noticed it before. He
picked it up. It was the letter that she had held in her trembling
hands.

He stood holding it, and then suddenly he opened the flap and pulled the
sheet from its cover. He unfolded it and looked at the signature. Yes,
it was from her mother. He folded the paper again and put it back in the
envelope.

Then as he stood for a moment, with the letter in his hand, he perceived
that his shirt-front was stained--with her tears.

He left the library and went towards his bedroom behind the curtained
door. He had the letter in his hand. He caught sight of Louise, Lady
Dashwood's maid, near the drawing-room door. The Warden held the letter
out to her.

"Please put this letter in Miss Scott's room," he said. "I found it
lying on the floor;" and he went back into his room.

Louise had gone to the drawing-room with a handkerchief forgotten by
Lady Dashwood. She took the letter and went upstairs to her mistress's
room, gazing at the letter as she walked. Now Louise was not a French
woman for nothing. A letter--even an open letter--passing between a male
and a female, must relate to an affair of the heart. This was
interesting--exciting! Louise felt the necessity of thinking the matter
out. Here was a pretty young lady, Miss Scott, and here was the Warden,
not