rd life
had given him no glimpse; semi-mystical, religious meditations upon
the great unknown around us; and grand schemes for the regeneration of
mankind--all formed part of them.

But there was one central thought, the fixed star of his mind, round
which all the others continually revolved, taking their light and colour
from it, and that was the thought of Madeline Croston, the woman to whom
he had been engaged. Years and years had passed since he had seen
her face, and yet it was always present to him. Beyond the occasional
mention of her name in some society paper--several of which, by the
way, he took in for years and conscientiously searched on the chance
of finding it--till this evening he had never even seen it or heard
it spoken; and yet with all the tenacity of his strong, deep nature he
clung to her dear memory. That she had left him to marry another man
weighed as nothing in the balance of his love. Once she had loved
him, and thereby he was repaid for the devotion of his life. He had
no ambitions. Madeline had been his great ambition; and when that had
fallen, all the others had fallen with it, even to the dust. He simply
did his duty, whatever it might be, as well as in him lay, without fear
of blame or hope of praise--shunning men, and never, if he could avoid
it, speaking to a woman, content to earn his livelihood, and for the
rest rendered colourless by his secret and pathetic passion.

And now it appeared that Madeline was a widow, which meant--and his
heart beat fast at the thought--that she was a free woman. Madeline was
a free woman, and he was within a few minutes' walk of her. No thousands
of miles of ocean rolled between them now. He rose, went to the table,
and consulted a Red book that lay on it. There was the address--a house
in Grosvenor Street. Overcome by an uncontrollable impulse, he went out
of the room. Going to his own he found his mackintosh and a round hat,
and softly left the house. It was then past two in the morning, pouring
with rain, and blowing hard.

He had been a little in London as a lad and remembered the main
thoroughfares, so had no great difficulty in finding his way up
Piccadilly till he came to Park Lane, into which the Red book told him
Grosvenor Square opened. But to find Grosvenor Street itself was a more
difficult matter, and at such a time on such a night there was naturally
nobody to ask--least of all a policeman. At last he found it, and
hurried on down the st