uld ever have
lived to get that letter had fate not thrown her across his path that
night.

She had been desperate--at the end of her tether, and all for the sake
of that cad Ashton.

He turned his back on the letter and lit a cigarette, but he let it go
out almost at once, and turned back again to stare once more at the
name scrawled on the envelope.

What had Ashton written to her? It worried him because he did not
know. Ashton had had other love-affairs--not quite such serious ones,
perhaps, but still serious enough--and Micky knew that when he had
wearied of them he had set about getting free of them by the shortest
route, caring little if it were also a brutal one. He thought of the
despair he had seen in Esther's face that evening; he dreaded that
there might be something in Ashton's farewell letter that would plunge
her back more deeply into her misery.

Out in the night the bells were still ringing joyously.

It was New Year's morning, and perhaps, if he sent that letter ... He
stood quite still for a moment, staring at it; then suddenly he threw
his cigarette into the fire and snatched the letter down from the
shelf.

He tore it open impulsively and drew out the enclosure. He unfolded it
and began to read. The silence of the room was unbroken save for the
little crisp sound as Micky turned the paper; then the letter
fluttered to the rug at his feet and lay there, half-curled up, as if
it were ashamed of the words it bore and wished to hide them.

Micky raised his eyes and looked at his reflection in the glass above
the mantelshelf. The pallor of his face surprised him, and the look of
passionate anger in his eyes.

He was a man of the world. He was no better and no worse than many of
the men whom he knew and called his friends, but this letter, in its
brutal callousness, seemed to shame his very manhood.

He had liked Ashton, had been his constant companion for months, but
he had never suspected him of being capable of this.

He supposed he ought to be ashamed of having opened the letter, but he
was not ashamed; he was glad that he had been able to spare the girl
this last and hardest blow of all--the knowledge that the man whom she
loved and trusted was unworthy.

Presently he picked the letter up from the rug. He picked it up with
the tips of his fingers, as if it were something repulsive to him, and
threw it down on the table.

The first few words stared up at him as it lay there.

"DEAR