his ordered life.

The hills had changed too. They had been the background to his
exploits. They had become brooding, mysterious partners whose purpose
with him he had not fathomed. The things that ran across his path, the
quaint furry hares and scurrying pheasants had ceased to be objects on
which he could vent his strength and cunning. They were live things,
deeply, secretly related to him and to a dying, very infamous woman,
and his levelled gun sank time after time under the pressure of an
inexplicable pity. He had stood resolutely aloof from life, and now it
was dragging him down into its warmth with invisible, resistless hands.
Its values, which he had learnt to judge coldly and dispassionately,
weighing one against another, were shifting like sand. He seemed to
stand, naked and alone, in a changing, terrifying world.

In those days the papers in their frivolous columns, were full of Gyp
Labelle. Her press-agent was working frenziedly. It seemed that she
had quarrelled with her manager, torn her contract into shreds, and
slapped his face. There were gay doings nightly at the Kensington
house--orgies. One paper hinted at a certain South African millionaire.

A last fling--the reckless gesture of a worthless panic-stricken soul,
without dignity.

Or perhaps she had found that his diagnosis had been a mistake. Or she
would not believe the truth. Or she was drugging herself into
forgetfulness. Perhaps she might even have the courage to make an end
before the time came when forgetfulness would be impossible.

He returned to town, drawn by an obsession of uncertainty. He found
that she had arrived at her rooms in the hospital with the shrivelled
old woman and the macaw and a gramophone.

She had signed the register as Marie Dubois.

"It is my real name," she explained, "but you couldn't have a good time
with a name like that--_voyons_! Only one 'usband and 'eaps of babies."

She was much nearer the end than he had supposed possible. The last
month had to be paid for. She lay very still under the gorgeous quilt
which she had brought with her, and her hand, which she had stretched
out to him in friendly welcome, was like the claw of a bird. "Everyone
'ere promise not to tell," she said. "I'm just Marie Dubois. Even ze
undertaker--'e must not know. You put on ze stone: 'Marie Dubois, ze
beloved daughter of Georges and Marianne Dubois, rag-pickers of Paris.'
That will be a last leetle joke, hein