wn. Have a cigarette?"

"No, thanks."

There was little silence. Jimmy eyed his friend with a sort of
suspicion. Sangster had heard something. Sangster probably knew all
there was to know. He shuffled his feet nervously.

Sangster was the sort of man at whom a woman like Cynthia Farrow would
never have given a second glance, if, indeed, she thought him worthy of
a first. He was short and squarely built; his hair was undeniably red
and ragged; his features were blunt, but he had a nice smile, and his
small, nondescript eyes were kind.

He sat down in the chair Jimmy had vacated and looked up at him
quizzically.

"Well," he said bluntly, "is it true?"

Jimmy flushed.

"True! what the----"

The other man stopped him with a gesture.

"Don't be an ass, Jimmy; I haven't known you all these years for
nothing. . . . Is it true that Cynthia's chucked you?"

"Yes." Jimmy's voice was hard. He stared up at the ceiling under
scowling brows.

Sangster said "Humph!" with a sort of growl. He scratched his chin
reflectively.

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "It's the best
thing that's ever happened to you, my son."

Jimmy's eyes travelled down from the ceiling slowly; perhaps it was
coincidence that they rested on the place on the mantelshelf where
Cynthia's portrait used to stand.

"Think so?" he said gruffly. "You never liked her."

"I did--but not as your wife. . . . She's much more suited to Henson
Mortlake--I always thought so. He'll keep her in order; you never
could have done."

Jimmy had been standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece; he swung
round sharply.

"Mortlake; what's he got to do with it?" he asked fiercely. "What the
deuce do you mean by dragging him in? It was nothing to do with
Mortlake that she--she----"

Sangster was looking at him curiously.

"Oh! I understood--what was the reason, then?" he asked.

Jimmy turned away. He found the other man's eyes somehow disconcerting.

"She's married already," he said in a stifled voice. "I--I always knew
she had been married, of course. She made no secret of it. He--the
brute--left her years ago; but last week--well, he turned up
again. . . . She--we--we had always believed he was dead."

There was a little silence. Sangster was no longer looking at Jimmy;
he was staring into the fire. Presently he began to whistle softly.
Jimmy rounded on him.

"Oh, shut up!" he said irritably.

Sangster stopped