ut her
fear of him had evaporated in her triumph. Those inquisitive, turquoise
eyes had an excellent memory behind them. Something in the shape of the
square black head and hulking shoulders quickened it now.

"It's odd----" Her smile was a grin that showed sharp little white teeth
ready to bite, and her speech was pointed with venomed meaning. "I used to
go out a great deal in such Society as the place possessed. Yet I do not
remember ever having met you!"

Saxham's cold eyes clashed with the malicious turquoises.

"I did not mingle in Society at Gueldersdorp."

He signed to the waiting manservant to open the hall-door. She drew her
snowy ermines about her and rustled over the threshold. But in the hall
she turned and dealt her thrust.

"No? You were too busy attending cases. Police-Court Cases ..."

Her light laugh fluttered mockingly about his ears.

"I remember the funny headings of some of the newspaper reports....
'Another Rampant Drunk! The Town Painted Red Again by the Dop Doctor!'"

"Door!" said Saxham, shaping the word with stiff grey lips. His face was
the face of Death, who had come close up and touched him. Her little
ladyship went out to her waiting auto-brougham, and her light, malignant
laugh fluttered back as the servant shut the hall-door.

Saxham went back into the consulting-room. The Spring sunshine poured in
through the tall muslin-screened window. There was a cheerful play of
light and colour in the place. But to the man who sat there it was full of
shadows, dark and gloomy, threatening and grim. And not the least
formidable among them was the shadow of the Dop Doctor of Gueldersdorp,
looming portentously over that fair face within the silver-gilt frame upon
the writing-table, stretching out long octopus-arms to drag down shame
upon it, and heap ashes of humiliation undeserved upon the lovely head,
and mock her with the solemn altar-vows that bound her to the drunkard.

LXI

The Great Victorian Age was laid to rest.

The great pageant of mortality had wound along the officially-appointed
route, under the cold grey sky, an apparently endless, slowly-marching
column of Infantry, Artillery, and Cavalry of the Line, progressing pace
by pace between the immovable barriers of great-coated soldiers, and the
surging, restless sea of black-clad men and women pent up on either hand
behind them. The long rolling of muffled drums, and the dull boom of
cannon; the baring of men's heads; th