seemed impossible for anything ever to
interest him again; but now he climbed out of his chair with a faint
show of energy and strolled over to the window.

It was a cold, clear night, with myriads of stars in the dark sky that
seemed to shed a faintly luminous light to earth, bright enough at all
events for Micky to distinguish the figure of a girl walking slowly
along the pathway below.

She was walking so slowly and dispiritedly that a sort of vague
curiosity stirred in Micky's heart; here, at least, was some one even
more fed-up with life than he himself, and with a sudden impulse he
turned from the window, and, snatching up a hat and coat which he had
thrown down when he came in an hour earlier, made for the stairs.

He was half-way down when an apologetic cough at his elbow arrested
him; he stopped and turned.

"Well, what is it?"

"If you please, sir, Mr. Ashton has just sent round to ask if you
could make it convenient to be in at ten o'clock this evening, as he
wants to see you particularly."

Micky looked surprised; Ashton had been very particularly engaged for
that evening, he knew. Evidently something had happened to upset his
plans as well.

"Ten o'clock? All right; I dare say I shall be in."

He went on down the stairs.

Out on the path he paused and looked up and down the street.

The impulse that had sent him out had died away; it was beastly cold,
and much more comfortable by the fire. He hesitated, and in that
moment he saw the figure of the girl again.

She had stopped now in the light of a street lamp, and seemed to be
looking at something she carried in her arms--a child! Surely not a
child!

Micky's curiosity was aroused. He buttoned the collar of his coat more
closely round his chin and went on.

The girl had moved too, almost as if she felt instinctively that she
was being followed, and as Micky drew abreast with her she shrank a
little to one side as if afraid.

"What's the matter?" asked Micky bluntly.

They were some few yards from the lamp now. But, as she turned to look
up at him with startled eyes, its yellow light fell on her face; and
Micky saw with amazement that she was quite young and exceedingly
pretty, in spite of the distress in her eyes, and the tears that were
still wet on her cheeks.

"What's the matter?" he asked again, more gently, and waited for the
pathetically shaken denial which he felt sure would come.

"Nothing--nothing at all."

"Nothing!" There