d it in.

"Hullo! Trojan, how are you? You ought to do this. It's the most
splendid fun--you've no idea. This wind is glorious. I shan't be home
till dark, Mary----" and they left him, laughing like a boy. She gave
him further directions as to the house, and they parted. She felt a
little lonely as she watched him hurrying down the street. He seemed
to have forgotten her completely. "Mary Bethel, you're a selfish pig,"
she said, as she climbed the stairs to her room. "Of course, he cares
more about his son--why not?" But nevertheless she sighed, and then
went down to make tea for her mother, who was tired and on the verge of
tears.

CHAPTER X

As he passed through the town all his thoughts were of his splendid
fortune. This was the very thing for which he had been hoping, the key
to all his difficulties.

The dusk was creeping down the streets. A silver star hung over the
roofs silhouetted black against the faint blue of the night sky. The
lamps seemed to wage war with the departing daylight; the after-glow of
the setting sun fluttered valiantly for a little, and then, yielding
its place to the stronger golden circles stretching like hanging moons
down the street, vanished.

The shops were closing. Worthley's Hosiery was putting up the shutters
and a boy stood in the doorway, yawning; there had been a sale and the
shop was tired. Midgett's Bookshop at the corner of the High Street
was still open and an old man with spectacles and a flowing beard stood
poring over the odd-lot box at 2d. a volume by the door.

The young man who advised ladies as to the purchase of six-shilling
novels waited impatiently. He had hoped to be off by six to-night. He
had an appointment at seven--and now this old man.... "We close at
six, sir," he said. But the old gentleman did not hear. He bent lower
and lower until his beard almost swept the pavement. Harry passed on.

All these things passed like shadows before Harry; he noticed them, but
they fitted into the pattern of his thoughts, forming a frame round his
great central idea--that at last he had his chance.

There was no fear in his mind that he would not get the letters. There
was, of course, the chance that Clare had been before him, but then, as
Mary had said, she had scarcely had time, and it was not likely that
the girl would give them up easily. It was just possible, too, that
the whole affair was a mistake, that Mrs. Feverel had merely boaste