brow had
remembered his patients, and had heard enough of the club gossip. He
followed the example of Baron Rivar, and walked off.

'One step more, you see, on the way to the end,' he repeated to
himself, on his way home. 'What end?'

CHAPTER IV

On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little
drawing-room of her London lodgings, burning the letters which had been
written to her by Montbarry in the bygone time.

The Countess's maliciously smart description of her, addressed to
Doctor Wybrow, had not even hinted at the charm that most distinguished
Agnes--the artless expression of goodness and purity which instantly
attracted everyone who approached her. She looked by many years
younger than she really was. With her fair complexion and her shy
manner, it seemed only natural to speak of her as 'a girl,' although
she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age. She lived
alone with an old nurse devoted to her, on a modest little income which
was just enough to support the two. There were none of the ordinary
signs of grief in her face, as she slowly tore the letters of her false
lover in two, and threw the pieces into the small fire which had been
lit to consume them. Unhappily for herself, she was one of those women
who feel too deeply to find relief in tears. Pale and quiet, with cold
trembling fingers, she destroyed the letters one by one without daring
to read them again. She had torn the last of the series, and was still
shrinking from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying
flame, when the old nurse came in, and asked if she would see 'Master
Henry,'--meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family, who had
publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of
the club.

Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face.

There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned that he
loved her. She had made her confession to him, acknowledging that her
heart was given to his eldest brother. He had submitted to his
disappointment; and they had met thenceforth as cousins and friends.
Never before had she associated the idea of him with embarrassing
recollections. But now, on the very day when his brother's marriage to
another woman had consummated his brother's treason towards her, there
was something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeing him. The old
nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles) observed her
hes