Not a word of "the case," though, of course, he must know all about
it--even in Algiers. Stephen's gratitude went out to his old friend,
and his heart felt warmer because of the letter and the invitation. Many
people, even with the best intentions, would have contrived to say the
wrong thing in these awkward circumstances. There would have been some
veiled allusion to the engagement; either silly, well-meant
congratulations and good wishes, or else a stupid hint of advice to get
out of a bad business while there was time. But Caird wrote as he might
have written if there had been no case, and no entanglement; and acting
on his first impulse, Stephen telegraphed an acceptance, saying that he
would start for Algiers in two or three days. Afterwards, when he had
given himself time to think, he did not regret his decision. Indeed, he
was glad of it, and glad that he had made it so soon.

A few weeks ago, a sudden break in his plans would have caused him a
great deal of trouble. There would have been dozens of luncheons and
dinners to escape from, and twice as many letters to write. But nowadays
he had few invitations and scarcely any letters to write, except those
of business, and an occasional line to Margot. People were willing to be
neglected by him, willing to let him alone, for now that he had
quarrelled with Northmorland and the Duchess, and had promised to marry
an impossible woman, he must be gently but firmly taught to expect
little of Society in future.

Stephen broke the news to his man that he was going away, alone, and
though the accomplished Molton had regrets, they were not as poignant as
they would have been some weeks earlier. Most valets, if not all, are
human, and have a weakness for a master whose social popularity is as
unbounded as his generosity.

Molton's services did not cease until after he had packed Stephen's
luggage, and seen him off at Victoria. He flattered himself, as he left
the station with three months' wages in his pocket, that he would be
missed; but Stephen was surprised at the sense of relief which came as
Molton turned a respectable back, and the boat-train began to slide out
of the station. It was good to be alone, to have loosed his moorings,
and to be drifting away where no eyes, once kind, would turn from him,
or turn on him with pity. Out there in Algiers, a town of which he had
the vaguest conception, there would be people who read the papers, of
course, and people who loved