he'll go with you anywhere," said Reggie. "You're a lucky
man, Green! But I'm sorry you're going so far away. I shall lose you
both. You see, I include your honoured self, because, as I have said, I
have already a sneaking fondness for you. May one, without being too
intrusive, ask if it is necessary for you to leave your native land?"

"It is," said Derrick, quietly. "I've no place, no foothold here--and
there are other reasons with which I needn't bother you."

"Oh, you wouldn't bother me; but I'm not curious. Or, rather, I am, but
friendship sets a limit to my curiosity. Well, I must be going. I am to
make an after-dinner call, by invitation, on a lady. Literally a
lady--Lady Gridborough." Derrick turned his head sharply, and Reggie,
noticing the movement, asked blandly, "Know her?"

"I've heard of her," answered Derrick, shortly.

"Delightful old lady," observed Reggie. "As she is a great friend of
Miss Grant's, you'll come to know her, of course. She is very kind to me
and asks me up to the Grange, that's her place, to smoke a cigarette
when I've done my work; indeed, whenever I care to go. Sometimes we
talk, sometimes I wander about the garden. She regards me as something
between an orphan child and a freak of nature; to her, an author is a
kind of imbecile which is to be humoured and cossetted. Well, so long!
Shall I tell you what you'll do for the rest of the evening? Yes, I will
tell you, whether you want me to do so or not. You will sit here and
moon----"

Derrick reached for Reggie's empty tumbler and made a feint of throwing
it at him, and Reggie went off, laughing.

If he did not sit in the same place all the evening, certainly Derrick
"mooned," as Reggie had prophesied. The mention of Lady Gridborough had
recalled the past, when he had been a favoured friend of the old lady's.
He knew that she thought him guilty of wronging Susie Morton; it was
just possible that she had heard of the forged cheque. He bit his lip
with mortification and a dull anger, as the desire rose in him to go up
to the Grange and clear himself. But he could only do so by breaking the
promise he had given to Heyton, by ruining Miriam's happiness.

He had suffered so much already for the sacrifice he had made, that it
seemed to him an absolute waste of it to divulge the truth. Once again,
there was Miriam, whose life would be wrecked if her husband were
exposed. He must still remain silent, still bear the burden which he had
take