itted from
Trelawny Road soon after you stopped calling. So who knows what's
happened since? I give you three guesses where I saw her."

"I hate riddles," said Michael fretfully.

"At the Orient," said Drake solemnly. "The Orient Promenade. You could
have knocked me down with a feather."

Michael stared at Drake, scarcely realizing the full implication of what
he just announced. Then suddenly he grasped the horrible fact that
revealed to him here in a music-hall carried a double force. His one
instinct for the moment was to prevent Drake from knowing into what
depths his news had plunged him.

"Has she changed?" asked Michael, and could have kicked himself for the
question.

"Well, of course there was a good deal of powder," said Drake. "I'm not
easily shocked, but this gave me a turn. She was with a man, but even if
she hadn't been, I doubt if I'd have had the nerve to talk to her. I
wouldn't have known what to say. But, of course, you know, her mother
was a bit rapid. That's where it is. Have another drink. You're looking
quite upset."

Michael shook his head. He must go home.

"Aren't you coming down West a bit?" asked Drake, in disappointment.
"The night's still young."

But Michael was not to be persuaded.

"Well, don't let's lose sight of each other now we've met. What's your
club? I've just joined the Primrose myself. Not a bad little place. You
get a rare good one-and-sixpenny lunch. You ought to join. Or perhaps
you're already suited?"

"I belong to the Bath," said Michael.

"Oh, of course, if you're suited, that's all right. But any time you
want to join the Primrose just let me know and I'll put you up. The sub
isn't really very much. Guinea a year."

Michael thanked him and escaped as quickly as he could. Outside even in
Oxford Street the air was full of summer, and the cool people sauntering
under the sapphirine sky were as welcome to his vision as if he had
waked from a fever. His head was throbbing with the heat of the
music-hall, and the freshness of night-air was delicious. He called a
hansom and told the driver to go to Blackfriars Bridge, and from there
slowly along the Embankment to Cheyne Walk. For a time he leaned back in
the cab, thinking of nothing, barely conscious of golden thoroughfares,
of figures in silhouette against the glitter, and of the London roar
rising and falling. Presently in the quiet of the shadowy cross-streets
he began to appreciate what seemed the terrible impo