That evening, when Sir Hugh Maine came back to his rooms in Jermyn
Street after dining out, he found a large man sprawling in one of his
saddle-back chairs, puffing vigorously at a pipe that looked worn with
long and faithful service. The man took the pipe out of his mouth and
sprang up.

"Hullo, Maine!" he cried. "D'you recognise the tobacco and me?"

Hugh grasped his hand warmly. "Rather," he said. "Neither is changed. At
least--h'm--I think you both seem a bit stronger even than usual. Who
would have thought of seeing you, Manning? I did not know you were in
Europe."

"I came from Asia. I thought I should like to hear Melba before the end
of the season. And it was getting sultry out there. So here I am."

"And were those your only reasons?"

"Give me a brandy-and-soda," said the other.

Maine did as he was bid, lit a cigar, and sat down, stretching out his
long legs. The other man took a pull at his glass, and spoke again.

"I am very fond of music," he said; "and Melba sings very well."

"Ah!"

"Look here, Maine," Manning broke out suddenly, "you are right--I had
another reason. Kipling says that those who have heard the East
a-calling never heed any other voice. He's wrong though. The West has
been calling me, or, at least, a voice in the West, and I have resisted
it for a deuce of a time. But at last it became imperative."

"A woman's voice, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what is its _timbre_, if you care to."

"I will. You're an old friend, and I can talk to you. But you tell me
one thing first: Is a man really a fool to marry a woman with a past?"

"You are going to?"

"I have tried not to. I have been trying not to for three years. Listen!
When I was travelling in Japan I met her. She was with an American
called Glinn."

"What?"

"You knew him?"

"No! It's all right. I was surprised, because at the moment I was
thinking of that very name."

"Oh! Well, she passed as Mrs Glinn; but, somehow, it got out that she
was something else. The usual story, you know. People fought shy of
her; but I don't think she cared much. Glinn was devoted to her, and she
loved him, and was as true to him as any wife could have been. Then the
tragedy came."

"What was it?"

"Glinn died suddenly in Tokio, of typhoid. She nursed him to the end.
And when the end came her situation was awful, so lonely and deserted.
There wasn't a woman in the hotel who would be her friend; so I tried to
come to the rescue, ar