ature that this
mood should last long, but it revealed to him those darker possibilities
which his egoism would develop if it came seriously into conflict with
overmastering misfortune. A hope, a craven hope, insinuated itself into
the cracks of his infirm resolve. He would not examine it, but conscious
of its existence he was able to go home in somewhat better spirits.

He wrote to Marian. If possible she was to meet him at half-past
nine next morning at Gloucester Gate. He had reasons for wishing this
interview to take place on neutral ground.

Early in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, there
arrived a letter which he opened with impatient hand; the writing was
Mrs Reardon's, and he could not guess what she had to communicate.

'DEAR MR MILVAIN,--I am distressed beyond measure to read in this
morning's newspaper that poor Mr Biffen has put an end to his life.
Doubtless you can obtain more details than are given in this bare report
of the discovery of his body. Will you let me hear, or come and see me?'

He read and was astonished. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had not
opened the newspaper to-day; it lay folded on a chair. Hastily he ran
his eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph which
stated that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide by
taking poison had been found on Putney Heath; that papers in his pockets
identified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street,
Tottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c. He went
to Dora's room, and told her of the event, but without mentioning the
letter which had brought it under his notice.

'I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. I
scarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill himself. If Reardon had
done it, I shouldn't have felt the least surprise.'

'Mr Whelpdale will be bringing us information, no doubt,' said Dora,
who, as she spoke, thought more of that gentleman's visit than of the
event that was to occasion it.

'Really, one can't grieve. There seemed no possibility of his ever
earning enough to live decently upon. But why the deuce did he go all
the way out there? Consideration for the people in whose house he lived,
I dare say; Biffen had a good deal of native delicacy.'

Dora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of that
desirable quality.

Leaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and was
presently on his way to Westbo