Edie was wrong, for after approaching his daughter several times on
the question of the possibility of obtaining a divorce, Myra had stopped
the admiral so decidedly that he had been ready to believe she must have
cared for Barron after all.

"First man who ever told her he loved her," the old man said to himself,
"so, of course, she can't help feeling a kind of liking for him. But
suppose he comes out on ticket-of-leave, don't they call it? And what
if he comes here? Bah! I'll shoot him before he shall have her. That
would bring Myra to book, too. That's a card I must play--possibility
of his coming back. She'll give in, then. I must hear what a lawyer
says."

But, in his unbusinesslike way, Sir Mark did nothing. Home was calm and
pleasant again, and he had his little dinners, and his friends; and to
him the existence of James Barron, alias Dale, at The Foreland became
less and less clear. He was buried, as it were, in a living tomb, and
there was no need to think of him for years.

Stratton came again and again for dinner, and now and then dropped in of
an evening. Always against his will, he told himself; but the
attraction was strong enough to draw him there. It was plain, too, that
Myra's eyes brightened when he entered, but he felt that it was only to
see her father's friend.

Then came one autumn night when, after a long and busy day, Stratton
made up his mind to go to Bourne Square, undid it, made up his mind
again, once more undid it, and determined that he would no longer play
the moth round the bright candle.

He had dressed, and, throwing off his light coat and crush hat, he went
out of his rooms and along the landing to Brettison's.

"I'll go and talk botany," he said. "Life is too valuable to waste upon
a heartless woman."

He knocked; no answer. Again; no reply.

"Gone out," he said. "What shall I do?"

Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then went and fetched his hat
and coat, descended, took a cab, and ordered the man to drive to
Guest's, in Grey's Inn.

"Better have stopped at home," muttered Stratton; "he will talk about
nothing else but Bourne Square." But he was wrong. Guest was out, so
descending into the square, and walking out into Holborn, Stratton took
another cab.

"Where to, sir?"

"Bourne Square."

Stratton sank back in his seat perfectly convinced that he had said
Benchers' Inn, and he started out of a reverie when the cab stopped at
the admiral's d