rothel. Presently her shouts were
mingled with piercing shrieks; they came from the would-be-suicide, who,
restored to consciousness, was being carried down for removal in the
cab. Peachey, looking and feeling like a man whom passion had brought
within sight of murder, stopped his ears and huddled himself against the
bedside. The child screamed in terror.

At length came silence. Peachey opened the door, and listened. Below,
voices sounded in quiet conversation.

'Who is down there?' he called.

'All of us except Ada,' replied Beatrice. 'The policeman said she
needn't go unless she liked, but she _did_ like.'

'Very well.'

He ran up to the deserted bedroom, carefully gathered together his
child's day-garments, and brought them down. Then, as well as he could,
he dressed the boy.

'Is it time to get up?' inquired the little three-year-old, astonished
at all that was happening, but soothed and amused by the thought that
his father had turned nurse. 'It isn't light yet.'

'You are going somewhere with father, dear. Somewhere nice.'

The dialogue between them, in sweet broken words such as the child had
not yet outgrown, and the parent did not wish to abandon for common
speech, went on until the dressing was completed.

'Now, will my boy show me where his clothes are for going out? His cap,
and his coat--'

Oh yes, they were up in the nursery; boy would show father--and laughed
merrily that he knew something father didn't. A few minutes more, and
the equipment was completed.

'Now wait for me here--only a minute. My boy won't cry, if I leave him
for a minute?'

'Cry! of course not!' Peachey descended to the drawing-room, closed the
door behind him, and stood facing his sisters-in-law.

'I want to tell you that I am going away, and taking the child with me.
Ada needn't expect me back to-night--nor ever. As long as I live I will
never again be under the same roof with her. You, Beatrice, said it was
about time I behaved like a man. You were right. I've put up long enough
with things such as no man ought to endure for a day. Tell your sister
that she may go on living here, if she chooses, for another six
months, to the end of the year--not longer. She shall be supplied with
sufficient money. After Christmas she may find a home for herself where
she likes; money will be paid to her through a lawyer, but from this
day I will neither speak nor write to her. You two must make your own
arrangements; you have means