for ages, the gloom on her
husband's face when he sat alone, or thought that he was alone. The
dull brooding look that spoiled his aspect at such times was like the
shadow of a dark cloud on a field; but as in the past the shadow went
rapidly, and she fancied she could chase it away as surely as if she
had been the sunshine. She would have been startled and pained if she
could have seen his face now, as he rode from Manninglea after
luncheon at the club.

It was a wet spring day, with dark clouds hanging low over the heath,
a cold wind cheeping, soughing, sighing; and Dale's face was darker
and sadder than the day. Before mounting his horse in the hotel yard
at Manninglea he had gone to the station and bought _The Times_
newspaper; now he drew the paper out of his pocket, and sheltering it
with his rain cloak, read an advertisement on the front page.

The advertisement told him that a London hospital gratefully
acknowledged the receipt of one hundred pounds, being the twenty-first
donation from the same hand, and making two thousand and twenty pounds
as the total received to date. In accordance with the request of their
anonymous benefactor, they inserted this notice, and they offered at
the same time their heartfelt thanks.

Dale tore out the advertisement and threw away the rest of the paper.

To his mind, this money was the payment of a very old debt. The amount
of his first charitable donation sent nearly fifteen years ago, had
been twenty pounds. That, the most urgent part of the debt,
represented the four bank-notes given to the wife by Mr. Barradine in
London. The other twenty instalments made up the amount of the legacy
that came to her at his death. Mavis had lent the money to her
husband, had in due course received a similar sum of money from him,
and she held it now safely invested; but, as Dale told himself, she
did not in truth hold one penny of the dead man's gifts. All that she
had now was the gift of him, Dale; and the money that soiled her hands
in touching it, the money that had burned his brain, the filthy gold
that had made him half-mad to think of, had gone to strangers whom
neither of them had ever seen. He had been slow about it; but, thank
God, he had done at last what he wanted to do at the very beginning.

He folded the scrap of paper that was his receipt or quittance, put it
in his breast pocket, and rode on at a foot-pace. He was absolutely
alone, not a soul in sight wherever he turned h