upon
it, and held it there.

Slowly his face, which had been deeply flushed before, lost all its
colour; his jaw dropped a little.

He was staring at the picture of himself which he had painted for
Phoebe in the parlour of the Green Nab Cottage thirteen years before.
The young face, in its handsome and arrogant vigour, the gypsy-black
hair and eyes, the powerful shoulders in the blue serge coat, the
sunburnt neck exposed by the loose, turn-down collar above the
greenish tie--there they were, as he had painted them, lying once
more under his hand. The flickering light of the candle showed him his
signature and the date.

He laid it down and drew a long breath. Thrusting his hands into his
pockets, he stood staring at it, his brain, under the sharp stimulus,
beginning to work more clearly. So Phoebe, too, was alive--and in
England. The picture was her token. That was what it meant.

He went heavily to the door, unlocked it, and called. The charwoman
appeared.

'Who brought this parcel?'

'A boy, sir.'

'Where's the note?--he must have brought something with it.'

'No, he didn't, sir--there was no note.'

'Don't be absurd!' cried Fenwick. 'There must have been.'

Mrs. Flint, outraged, protested that she knew what she was a-saying
of. He questioned her fiercely, but there was nothing to be got out of
her rigmarole account, which Fenwick cut short by retreating into the
studio in the middle of it.

This fresh check unhinged him altogether--seemed to make a mere fool
of him--the sport of gods and men. There he paced up and down in a
mad excitement. What in the Devil's name was the meaning of it? The
picture came from Phoebe--no one else. But it seemed she had only
sent it to him to torment him to punish him yet more? Women were the
cruellest of God's creatures. And as for himself--idiot!--if he had
only finished his business an hour ago, both she and he would have
been released by this time. He worked himself up into a wild passion
of rage, stopping every now and then to look at that ghost of his
youth, which lay on the table, propped up against some books--and once
at the reflexion of his haggard face and grey hair as he passed in
front of an old mirror on the wall.

Then suddenly the tension gave way. He sank on the chair beside the
table, hiding his face on his arms in an utter exhaustion, while yet,
through the physical weakness, something swept and vibrated, which was
in truth the onset of returning life