ith its cloud of unshining hair, her small tenacious hands. He saw
her distinctly. But she was far away, utterly remote from him. She had
meant nothing to him, and yet she had ruined him. Let her go. Her work
was done.

It was near midnight when he went at last to his lodgings, which were in
a high house not far from the Tophane landing. From his windows he could
see the Golden Horn, and the minarets and domes of Stamboul. His two
rooms, though clean, were shabbily furnished and unattractive. He had a
Greek servant who came in every day to do what was necessary. He never
received any visitors in these rooms, which he had taken when he gave up
going into the society of the diplomats and others, to whom he had been
introduced at Buyukderer.

His feet echoed on the dirty staircase so he mounted slowly up till he
stood in front of his own door. Slowly, like one making an effort that
was almost painful to him he searched for his key and drew it out. His
hand shook as he inserted the key into the keyhole. He tried to steady
his hand, but he could not control its furtive and perpetual movement.
When the door was open he struck a match, and lit a candle that stood on
a chair in the dingy and narrow lobby. Then he turned round wearily
to shut the door. He was possessed by a great fatigue, and wondered
whether, if he fell on his bed in the blackness, he would be able to
sleep. As he turned, he saw, lying on the matting at his feet, a square
white envelope. It was lying upside down. Some one must have pushed it
under the door while he was out.

He stood looking at it for a minute. Then he shut the door, bent down,
picked up the envelope, turned it over and held it near the candle
flame. He read his name and the handwriting was Rosamund's.

After a long pause he took the candle and carried the letter into his
sitting-room. He set the candle down on the table on which lay "The
Kasidah" and a few other books, laid the letter beside it, with
trembling hands drew up a chair and sat down.

Rosamund had written to him. When? Before she had learnt the truth or
afterwards?

For a long time he sat there, leaning over the table, staring at the
address which her hand had written. And he saw her hand, so different
from Mrs. Clarke's, and he remembered its touch upon his, absolutely
unlike the touch of any other hand ever felt by him. Something quivered
in his flesh. The agony of the body rushed upon him and mingled with
the agony of the