at Bunce's position was a miserable one, and Mrs. Ormonde, if once
she could establish direct relations with the man, would doubtless find
many a little way of being useful to him. He put it at length as a
personal favour. Bunce again ploughed the floor, then blurted out:

'I'll go, Mr. Egremont. I'm not one to talk to ladies, as you can see
yourself, but I can't help that. I shall have to go as I am.'

'Mrs. Ormonde will gladly come here, if you will let her.'

'I'd rather not, if you don't mind, sir.'

'Then it will be simplest if you go to my rooms in Great Russell
Street, just by the British Museum. I leave town tomorrow; Mrs. Ormonde
will be quite alone to meet you. Could you be there at nine o'clock?'

The appointment was made, Egremont leaving one of his cards to insure
recollection of the address. Then he spoke a word or two to the
children, and Bunce led him down to the door. They shook hands.

'I shall see you at the library soon, I hope,' Egremont said. 'You must
give me your best help in making it known.'

The words sounded so hollow in his own ears that, as he turned to go
along the dark street, he could have laughed at himself scornfully.

As Bunce reascended, someone met and passed him, hurrying with light
feet and woman's garments silently.

'That you, Miss Nancarrow?' he asked, for there was no light on the
staircase.

'No,' came a muffled reply. 'Miss Nancarrow isn't in.'

It was the voice of Thyrza Trent. Bunce did not recognise it, for he
knew her too slightly.

She had come to the house not long before Egremont. After a day of
suffering she wished to speak with Totty. Totty was the only one to
whom she _could_ speak now; Gilbert, her own Lyddy--them she dreaded.
Notwithstanding the terms on which she had parted with her friend on
Monday night, she felt an irresistible need of seeing her. It was one
way, moreover, of passing a part of the evening away from Walnut Tree
Walk. But Totty was out, had not yet come home since her work. Thyrza
said she would go upstairs and wait.

She did so. Totty's room was dark and, of course, fireless; but she
cared neither for the darkness nor the cold. She groped her way to a
chair and sat very still. It was a blessed relief to be here, to be
safe from Gilbert and Lyddy for ever so short a time, to sit and clasp
the darkness like something loved. She was making up her mind to tell
Totty everything. Someone she must tell--someone. Not Lyddy; that would
b