stly confess that I had but one thought: how
much time would be required to go to Belgrave Square and back to the
studio, to learn the whereabouts of Winifred. 'But she's safe,' I
kept murmuring, in answer to that rising dread: 'Wilderspin said she
was safe.'

During that drive to Belgrave Square, he whose bearing towards my
mother was that of the anxious, loving son was not I, the only living
child of her womb, but poor, simple, empty-headed Sleaford.

When we reached Belgrave Square my mother declared that she had
entirely recovered from the fainting fit, but I scarcely dared to
look into those haggard eyes of hers, which showed only too plainly
that the triumph of remorse in her bosom was now complete. My aunt,
who seemed to guess that something lowering to the family had taken
place, was impatient to get on board the yacht. I saw how my mother
now longed to remain and learn the upshot of events; but I told her
that she was far better away now, and that I would write to her and
keep her posted up in the story day by day. I bade them a hurried
'Good-bye.'

'How shall I be able to stay out of England until I know all about
her?' said my mother. 'Go back and learn all about her, Henry, and
write to me; and be sure to get and take care of that dreadful
picture, and write to me about that also.'

When the carriage left I walked rapidly along the Square, looking
for a hansom. In a second or two Sleaford was by my side. He took my
arm.

'I suppose you're goin' back to cane him, aren't you?' said he.

'Cane whom?' I said impatiently, for that intolerable thought which
I have hinted at was now growing within my brain, and I must, _must_
be alone to grapple with it.

'Cane the d----d painter, of course,' said Sleaford, opening his
great blue eyes in wonder that such a question should be asked.
'Awfully bad form that fellow goin' and puttin' your mother in the
picture. But that's just the way with these fellows.'

'What do you mean?' I asked again.

'What do I mean? The paintin' and writin' fellows. You can't make a
silk purse out of a sow's ear, as I've often and often said to Cyril
Aylwin; and by Jove, I'm right for once. I suppose I needn't ask you
if you're going back to cane him.'

'Wilderspin did what he did quite unconsciously,' I replied, as I
hailed a hansom. 'It was the finger of God.'

'The finger of--Oh come! That be hanged, old chap.'

'Good-bye,' I said, as I jumped into the hansom.

'But you don