arthly. "Bertie has come through a great deal of suffering," she
said. "It has taught him to know the good from the bad. And--he said I
shouldn't be ruined for his sake. As if I cared for that!" she ended,
smiling wanly.

"Thank God he did for you!" Hilda said.

"Oh, do you think it matters?" said Chris.

CHAPTER II

A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

It was a dark, wet night. The rain streamed from the gutters and pattered
desolately on the pavement below. It had rained for hours.

Trevor Mordaunt sat alone, with a pipe between his teeth, his windows
flung wide to the empty street, and listened to the downpour. He had
arrived in town that afternoon to make a few necessary arrangements
before leaving England. These arrangements completed, there was nothing
left to do but to await the next morning for departure.

It was not easy, that waiting. He faced it with grim fortitude, realizing
the futility of going to bed. It was possible that he might presently
doze in his chair, but ordinary sleep was out of the question, and he
would not trouble himself to court it. Tossing all night sleepless on his
pillow was a refinement of torture that he did not feel called upon to
bear.

He had spent the previous night tramping the country-side, but he could
not tramp in London, and though he was not aware of fatigue, he knew the
necessity for bodily rest existed, and he compelled himself to take it.

So he sat motionless, listening to the rain, while the hours crawled by.

The roar of London traffic rose from afar, for the night was still. Now
and then a taxi whirred through the sloppy street, but there were few
wayfarers. Once a boy passed whistling, and the man at the window above
stiffened a little, as if in some fashion the careless melody stirred
him, but as the whistler turned the corner he relaxed again with his head
back, and resumed his attitude of waiting.

It was nearly midnight when a taxi hummed up to the flaring lamp-post
before the house, and stopped to discharge its occupant. Mordaunt heard
the vehicle, but his eyes were closed and he did not trouble to open
them. He had laid aside his pipe, and actually seemed to be on the verge
of dozing at last. The window-curtain screened him from the view of any
in the street, and it did not occur to him that the new arrival could be
in any way connected with himself.

It was, therefore, with a hint of surprise that he turned his head at the
opening of the door.

"Mr. Wynd