umbling on her way. She had neither stumbled nor
clambered, she had swept it away out of his path and hers. That was
because she knew Miss Robin and had known her from her babyhood.

Though for some time he walked to and fro slowly as he talked she saw
that it was easier for him to complete the relation of his story. But as
it proceeded it was necessary for her to make an effort to recall
herself to a realisation of the atmosphere of the parlour and the narrow
street outside the window--and she was glad to be assisted by the
amiable rumble of Mr. Jenkinson's voice as heard from the back room when
she found herself involuntarily leaning forward in her chair, vaguely
conscious that she was drawing short breaths, as she listened to what he
was telling her. The things she was listening to stood out from a
background of unreality so startling. She was even faintly tormented by
shadowy memories of a play she had seen years ago at Drury Lane. And
Drury Lane incidents were of a world so incongruously remote from the
house in Eaton Square and her grace's clever aquiline ivory face--and
his lordship with his quiet bearing and his unromantic and elderly,
tired fineness. And yet he was going to undertake to do a thing which
was of the order of deed the sober everyday mind could only expect from
the race of persons known as "heroes" in theatres and in books. And he
was noticeably and wholly untheatrical about it. His plans were those of
a farseeing and practical man in every detail. To Dowie the working
perfection of his preparations was amazing. They included every
contingency and seemed to forget nothing and ignore no possibility. He
had thought of things the cleverest woman might have thought of, he had
achieved effects as only a sensible man accustomed to power and
obedience could have achieved them. And from first to last he kept
before Dowie the one thing which held the strongest appeal. In her
helpless heartbreak and tragedy Robin needed her as she needed no one
else in the world.

"She is so broken and weakened that she may not live," he said in the
end. "No one can care for her as you can."

"I can care for her, poor lamb. I'll come when your lordship's ready for
me, be it soon or late."

"Thank you, Dowie," he said again. "It will be soon."

And when he shook hands with her and she opened the front door for him,
she stood and watched him, thinking very deeply as he walked down the
street with the wind-blown dust and s