n the mantel-piece of
the rooms in the Temple. Andrew found them there when he returned to
town in the middle of October. The room was cheerless, tenantless,
fireless. He lit the gas and looked through his letters. He did not dare
to open those which came from her. There were bills, invitation cards, a
returned manuscript or two, a cheque for a magazine article, and a
letter in Stephen's hand-writing. It was dated a fortnight earlier.

"DEAR OLD CHAP," it ran, "I'm off to my father's. I can't bear
it. I can't face you or any one. I wish to God I'd never told
you anything about Rosamund Rainham's money. There isn't any
money: it was all in the Crystal Oil Co. No one had the least
idea that it wasn't good, but I feel as if I ought to have
known. There's a beggarly hundred or so in consols: that's the
end of her million. It wasn't really my fault, of course. She
doesn't blame me.--Yours,

"STEPHEN GUILLEMOT."

Then he opened her letters--read them all--in the order of the dates on
the postmarks, for even in love Andrew was an orderly man--read them
with eyes that pricked and smarted. There were four or five of them.
First, the frank pleading of affection, then the coldness of hurt pride
and love; then, doubts, wonderings. Was he ill? Was he away? Would he
not at least answer? Passionate longing, tender anxiety breathed in
every word. Then came the last letter of all, written a fortnight ago:

"DEAR ANDREW,--I want you to understand that all is over
between us. I know you wished it, and now I see you are right.
I could never have been anything to you but your loving friend,

"ROSAMUND."

He read it through twice; it was a greater shock to him than Stephen's
letter had been. Then he understood. The Millionairess might stoop to
woo a poor lover whose pride had fought with and conquered his love:
the girl with only a "beggarly hundred in consols" had her pride too.

The early October dusk filled the room. Andrew caught up the bag he had
brought with him, slammed the door, and blundered down the stairs. He
caught a passing hansom in Fleet Street and the last train to Lymchurch.

A furious south-wester was waiting for him there. He could hardly stand
against it--it blew and tore and buffeted him, almost prevailing against
him as he staggered down the road from the station. The night was in