me she can say so."

"She has her pride, too, you know,"

Jimmy swore again. He was feeling very ill and upset; he was firmly
convinced that he was the most ill-used beggar in the whole of London.
Remorse was gnawing hard at his heart, though he was trying to believe
that it was entirely another emotion. He had not slept properly for
nights; his head ached, and his nerves were jumpy.

"I'll not go till she sends for me," he said again obstinately.

Sangster made no comment.

He did not see Jimmy again for some days, though he heard of him once
or twice from a mutual acquaintance.

"Challoner's going to the devil, I should think," so the mutual
acquaintance informed him bluntly. "What's the matter with the chap?
Hasn't anybody got any influence over him? He's drinking hard and
gambling his soul away."

Sangster said "Rubbish!" with a confidence he was far from feeling.

He did not really believe it; he knew Jimmy was a bit reckless and
inclined to behave wildly when things did not entirely go to his taste,
but he considered this a gross exaggeration of the truth; he made a
mental note to look Jimmy up the following day.

But it was the very same night that Costin, Jimmy Challoner's man,
presented himself at the rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury
and asked anxiously for Mr. Sangster.

Sangster heard his voice in the narrow passage outside and recognised
it. He left his supper--a very meagre supper of bread and cheese, as
funds were low that week--and went to the door.

"Do you want me, Costin?"

The man looked relieved.

"Yes, sir--if you please, sir. It's Mr. Challoner, I'm afraid he's
very ill, but he won't let me send for a doctor, so I just slipped out
and came round to you, sir."

* * * * * *

Sangster found Jimmy Challoner huddled up in an arm-chair by a roasting
fire. His face looked red and feverish, his eyes had a sort of
unnatural glazed look, but he was sufficiently well to be able to swear
when he saw his friend.

"Costin fetched you, of course. Interfering old idiot! He thinks I'm
ill, but it's all bally rot! I've got a chill, that's all. What the
deuce do you want?"

Sangster answered good-temperedly that he didn't want anything in
particular; privately he agreed with Costin that it was more than an
ordinary chill that had drawn Jimmy's face and made such hollows
beneath his eyes. He stood with his back to the fire looking down at
h