in his hand, and now his face suffused. He
seemed anxious to get away, and looked round for his cap. He couldn't
do here what he wanted to do. He felt that he must burst.

"Now, off you go. And you be here at nine o'clock on Sunday-week with
the papers, and tell me what you've done."

"Gawd--my Gawd!" said the lad, huskily. The next minute he was out in
the hall, and the door was shut behind him. A moment later, hearing a
whoop, Stafford went to the window and, looking down, he saw his late
visitor turning a cart-wheel under the nose of a policeman, and then,
with another whoop, shooting down into the Mall, making Lambeth way.

With a smile he turned from the window. "Well, we shall see," he said.
"Perhaps it will be my one lucky speculation. Who knows--who knows!"

His eye caught the portrait of Al'mah on the mantelpiece. He went over
and stood looking at it musingly.

"You were a good girl," he said, aloud. "At any rate, you wouldn't
pretend. You'd gamble with your immortal soul, but you wouldn't sell
it--not for three millions, not for a hundred times three millions. Or
is it that you are all alike, you women? Isn't there one of you that
can be absolutely true? Isn't there one that won't smirch her soul and
kill the faith of those that love her for some moment's excitement, for
gold to gratify a vanity, or to have a wider sweep to her skirts? Vain,
vain, vain--and dishonourable, essentially dishonourable. There might
be tragedies, but there wouldn't be many intrigues if women weren't so
dishonourable--the secret orchard rather than the open highway and
robbery under arms.... Whew, what a world!"

He walked up and down the room for a moment, his eyes looking straight
before him; then he stopped short. "I suppose it's natural that, coming
back to England, I should begin to unpack a lot of old memories, empty
out the box-room, and come across some useless and discarded things.
I'll settle down presently; but it's a thoroughly useless business
turning over old stock. The wise man pitches it all into the junk-shop,
and cuts his losses."

He picked up the Morning Post and glanced down the middle page--the
social column first--with the half-amused reflection that he hadn't
done it for years, and that here were the same old names reappearing,
with the same brief chronicles. Here, too, were new names, some of
them, if not most of them, of a foreign turn to their syllables--New
York, Melbourne, Buenos Ayres, Johannesbu