is request, he declared himself unable
to discover. Was it a reproach? If so, his conscience afforded him no
light, and he hoped Alma would explain the words in a letter to him at
Pinner.

This correspondence clouded his last evening at Greystone. He was glad
that some acquaintances of Morton's came, and stayed late; sitting
alone with his friend, he would have been tempted to talk of Alma, and
he felt that silence was better just now.

By a train soon after breakfast next morning, he left the old town,
dearer to him each time that he beheld it, and travelled slowly to the
main-line junction, whence again he travelled slowly to Peterborough.
There the express caught him up, and flung him into roaring London
again. Before going to Pinner, he wished to see Cecil Morphew, for he
had an idea to communicate--a suggestion for the extending of business
by opening correspondence with out of the way towns, such as Greystone.

On reaching the shop in Westminster Bridge Road, he found that Morphew
also had a communication to make, and of a more exciting nature.

CHAPTER 3

Morphew was engaged upstairs with the secretary of an Amateur
Photographic Society. Waiting for this person's departure, Rolfe talked
with the shopman--a capable fellow, aged about thirty, whose heart was
in the business; he looked at a new hand-camera, which seemed likely to
have a good sale, and heard encouraging reports of things in general.
Then Morphew came down, escorting his visitor. As soon as he was free,
he grasped Harvey by the arm, and whispered eagerly that he had
something to tell him. They went upstairs together, into a room
furnished as an office, hung about with many framed photographs.

'He's dead!' exclaimed Cecil--'he's dead!'

A name was needless. Only one man's death could be the cause of such
excitement in Morphew, and it had been so long awaited that the event
had no touch of solemnity. Yet Harvey perceived that his friend's
exultation was not unmixed with disquietude.

'Yesterday morning, early. I heard it by chance. Of course, she hasn't
written to me, but no doubt I shall hear in a few days. I walked about
near the house for hours last night--like an idiot. The thing seemed
impossible; I had to keep reminding myself, by looking at the windows,
that it was true. Eight years--think of that! Eight years' misery, due
to that fellow's snobbishness!'

In Harvey's mind the story had a somewhat different aspect. He knew
noth