shton--that he had forgotten to tell them. He
went back hurriedly to the bureau.

"Any letters for Ashton?--I am expecting one for a friend of mine of
that name...."

He waited breathlessly while the girl sorted through the pigeon-holes
on the wall; he felt as if he could hardly breathe when she came back
with a grey envelope in her hand.

"Mais oui...." she said smilingly. "I did not know it was for
monsieur...."

Mickey almost snatched it from her; he had not even glanced at the
writing, but he knew it must be from Esther. He sat down at the
breakfast table with his thoughts in a whirl; he was sure that the
waiter must know how excited he felt. He ordered coffee and rolls
before he opened the envelope; he laid it down on the cloth beside him
and stared at it very much as a sentimental girl might stare at her
first love-letter, hesitating to open it, wishing to prolong the
ultimate delight.

Finally he cut it open carefully and drew out the contents. His pulses
were racing, he did not know if shame or delight were the greatest
emotion in his heart; he glanced at the first two words and the blood
rushed to his face.

It seemed almost sacrilege to read what she had written to the man she
loved--he pushed the paper back into its envelope--he did not look at
it again till he had finished his pretence of a meal, then he took it
out with him into the rather dingy winter garden and sat down in the
quietest corner he could find.

There he faced the greatest moment of his life; as to whether he
should go on with this thing or wipe it out of his life once and for
all.

Ashton had done with Esther; he was as sure of that as he was sure
that Ashton meant to marry Mrs. Clare. This being so, was it wrong of
him to try and give Esther some happiness in place of what she had
lost? She had refused to marry him--she had said that she could never
care for him; could he hope to make her change her mind? In his heart
he was sure that he could; he wanted her so badly that it seemed to
him as if the very force of his desire must compel some return from
her.

He sat staring down the dismal garden with moody eyes. He knew it was
a big risk; he thought of her as he had first seen her and as he had
last seen her. He had never once really thought that she looked
happy--she had never quite lost the shadow in her eyes or the droop to
her lips which he had at first noticed, and he wanted her to be happy.
He wanted her happiness far mor