ad said that Stonehouse flinched, and
suddenly Cosgrave seemed to feel an impatient compassion for him. "Oh,
I'm a beast. It was jolly decent of you. You meant well. But you
can't help."

And _that_ was what she had said. Stonehouse made no answer. He saw
himself as ridiculous and futile. He was sick with disgust at his own
pain. If he had lost Cosgrave he wanted to have done with the whole
business now--quickly and once and for all.

There was a sense of finality in the shabby room. The invisible bond
that had held them through eight years of separation and silence had
given way. It was almost a physical thing. It checked and damped down
Cosgrave's excitement so that he said almost calmly:

"Well, I shan't attempt to see her again. You'll have that
satisfaction. I'll get out of here--back to my jolly old swamp, where
there aren't any beastly women--decent or indecent--only mosquitoes."

He waited a moment, as though trying hard to finish on a warmer, more
generous note. Perhaps some faint flicker of recollection revived in
him. But it could only illuminate a horrifying indifference. He went
out without so much as a "good-night."

The morning papers gave the Kensington House incident due prominence.
It was one more feather in Mademoiselle Labelle's outrageous head-gear.
The Olympic had not so much as standing room for weeks after.

Cosgrave kept his word. He did not see her again, and within a week he
had sailed for West Africa--to die. But ten days later Stonehouse
received a wireless, and a month later a letter and a photograph of a
fair-haired, tender-eyed, slightly bovine-looking girl in evening
dress. It appeared that she was a Good Woman and the daughter of
wealthy and doting parents, and that in all probability West Africa
would see Rufus Cosgrave no more.

So that was the end of their boyhood. Cosgrave had saved himself--or
something outside Stonehouse's strength and wisdom had saved him. They
would meet again and appear to be old friends. But the chapter of
their real friendship, with all its inarticulate romance and
tenderness, was closed finally.

Stonehouse kept the photograph on the table of his consulting-room. He
believed that it amused him.

3

Still he could not work at night. He resumed his haunted prowlings
through the streets. But he took care that he did not pass Francey
Wilmot's house again. He knew now that he was afraid. He was ill,
too, with a secret,