Micky went to Paris. “No, I shan’t want you, Driver,” he told his man awkwardly. “I’m only going for a day or two. I––er––I shan’t want you,” he said again lamely.

He looked at the man guiltily, but Driver was as impassive as ever. “Very good, sir,” he said. He could not understand what had happened to Micky; as a rule, he refused even to take his own railway ticket or speak to a porter. This new independence worried him.

But Micky went off cheerfully enough. He rang June up at her club the morning he started and told her he was really going. He heard her cheery laugh across the telephone. “Micky, you’re not up to any mischief?”

“As if I should be!” he answered with dignity.

“I wouldn’t trust you,” she said promptly. “However, have a good time, and if you see the phantom lover, you might push him into the Seine for me.”

“I’ll remember,” Micky said grimly. He hesitated. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She echoed his words, not understanding. “Everything all right? Do you mean the swindle? Oh, yes, it’s going fine, thank you. I had another order from those American export people this morning.”

“Good.... And––Miss Shepstone gone?”

“No, she’s going on Saturday. Sickening, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think she’ll stay long,” Micky said soothingly. “It won’t do her any harm to see how she likes it. Well, good-bye.”

He stood for a moment after he had hung up the receiver, staring at it. He wished he had not arranged to go to Paris. Supposing Ashton took it into his head to come back while he was away? Supposing he went home and found Esther there?

He tried to believe that it was not at all likely, but at the last moment, as he got into the train and received his ticket from the solemn Driver, Micky said––

“You know where to find me if anything happens––if anything should be the matter?”

“Yes, sir.” Driver raised wooden eyes to his master’s face. “Was you expecting anything to happen, sir?” he asked stolidly.

Micky got red. “No, you fool!”

“Very good, sir,” Driver retorted unmoved.

And so Micky went to Paris. It was dark when he got there, and he drove at once to a small and unpretentious hotel in a narrow side street, where he had never been before, but of which he had heard from Philips.

After all, it was only for a few nights. He did not want to stay in Paris long––Paris always bored him, but he made a little grimace as he looked up at the windows of the hotel. It certainly was a rotten-looking little show, he thought as he followed the concierge into the hall. This, too, was small and unpretentious, with a polished floor and wicker chairs scattered about. There was a kind of winter garden leading from the lounge, where a few neglected palms and ferns were struggling for an existence, and the whole place was silent, almost deserted.

Micky was too late for dinner, but a smiling host, with a short dark beard, assured him that he could have a most excellent supper in less time than he would enumerate of what that supper would consist. Micky said he didn’t care what it was. He followed his suit-case up the wide, shallow stairs to a quaint little room with a low ceiling and polished floor.

He was beginning to feel more at home after all; one could be quiet here and not be eternally running up against people whom one knew; he felt more cheerful when he went down to his supper.

He asked the waiter if there were many people staying there. His tone of voice sounded as if he sincerely hoped 128 there were not, and the waiter tactfully submitted that the place was almost empty.

Micky proceeded with his supper.

It was nearly ten o’clock, but he went out into the lounge when he had finished and sat down at a table in one of the most secluded corners.

There were pen and ink and a supply of hotel note paper, which Micky looked at with great satisfaction, before he took up a pen, carefully examined the nib, squared his elbows and began to write.

“My darling–––”

Micky wrote the words hurriedly and covered them over with a sheet of blotting paper as if they made him feel guilty.

“I thought I should have been leaving Paris before now, but have been delayed. I shall be staying here till the end of the week and am writing this so that you can let me have a letter before I leave. I hope you have received both my other letters safely, and are quite well and as happy as possible, seeing that we cannot be together–––”

He sat back for a moment and looked at this frowningly, then he wrote on hurriedly.

“I want you to miss me, you see––I want you to feel as I do, that there is only one thing to look forward to and that is when we shall be together again. Dearest, it seems now that I have never really told you how well I love you. Some day, if all that I wish for comes true, I will tell you the many things you would not let me say when we were last together....”

Micky’s pen flew easily enough. For the moment he had forgotten why and for whom he was writing, and thought only of Esther as she had looked when he last saw her with the tears wet on her cheeks.

“Write to me as soon as you get this, so that I may have a letter to take with me when I leave. I shall watch for every post and count the minutes till it comes. I have arranged with my bankers to send the money to you every week. Dearest, if this is not enough, please let me know, and I will send some more....”

Micky scratched out the last five words, finally rewriting the whole page to add

“... Let me know and we must see what can be done. I cannot bear to think that you are wanting anything which it is in my power to give you. Tell me all about yourself; if you are well and happy––and how often you think of me. I shall write again soon, perhaps to-morrow ... and till then, and for ever, I am always yours, Micky ....”

He added his own signature without noticing it, then realised what he had done and rewrote the last page in a panic.

Supposing he had sent it!––it made him hot all over to think what would have happened. He would have to be more careful, he told himself severely. He carefully directed the letter and went out to post it, then he went to bed in the little room with the low ceiling and lay awake half the night.

Now the letter had gone he wished he had never sent it; after all, it was cheating Esther. It was not fair to make her write to him; he felt that he had behaved like a cur ... he tossed and turned from side to side. Perhaps she would not write! He almost hoped she would not. When at last he dozed off it was almost daybreak; when he woke it was eleven o’clock and the sunshine was pouring into his room.

He had a bit of a headache and felt wretched; he drank four cups of strong coffee and went out.

He avoided the popular thoroughfares; he sauntered about till lunch time and then went back to the hotel. Apparently the waiter had spoken the truth when he said the place was almost empty, for only two of the twenty tables were occupied beside his own.

Micky felt bored; he made up his mind to tell Philips what he thought of his recommendation when he got back to London. He slept all the afternoon, then dressed and went off to dinner at the hotel where he and Driver stayed when they were last in Paris. Here at least was a welcome; most of the waiters recognised him; the attention 130 was excellent, and he got a decent dinner. The hotel was full, but though Micky looked suspiciously at every one who came in, he recognised nobody.

He wondered how long he had got to stay in Paris. Esther could not get his letter and send a reply that would arrive in less than three days; he calculated that he could not get back to London before Sunday morning.

And Esther was going to Mrs. Ashton’s on Saturday.

He had just finished his dinner when the swing doors opened and a man came into the room with a lady in evening dress.

Micky looked at them, and his heart began to race––for the man was Raymond Ashton, and the woman, Tubby Clare’s little widow.

Ashton saw Micky at once, and his face fell into almost comical lines of dismay, but he pulled himself together at once and spoke to the woman beside him.

Micky knew Mrs. Clare slightly; he rose and went towards them.

“I heard you were in Paris,” he said. He shook hands with Mrs. Clare; she was rather a pretty little woman, small and plump, with round, meaningless eyes and a friendly smile.

“We’re going to the opera,” Ashton said. “Mrs. Clare is not staying here, but she very kindly consented to come and dine with me. Are you staying here, Micky? When did you come over?”

“Last night; and I’m not staying here. Just dropped in for some grub.”

“You’d better dine with us,” Ashton said, but he did not sound very enthusiastic.

Micky laughed. “Thanks, but I have dined. I was just leaving when you came in.” He thought of Esther, and his face hardened. This was the man of whom she was thinking all day and every day; this man who was 131 so obviously going to try and marry Tubby Clare’s little widow.

He stood talking to them for a few moments, then excused himself.

“You haven’t told me where you are staying,” Ashton said.

“No––and I’m going away to-morrow anyway.... When are you coming back to town?”

Ashton looked quickly at his companion. “Oh, not yet awhile,” he said.

“I see.” Micky met his eyes steadily. “By the way, I got your letter,” he said after a moment. “You didn’t ask about that letter you gave me. I posted it–––”

Raymond turned crimson. “The letter––oh yes, thanks––thanks, very much. You didn’t take it then?”

“No, I posted it.” Micky’s voice was flinty.

“Er––thanks awfully!” Ashton said again. He twisted his moustache nervously. “I’ll see you some other time,” he said with a rush. “I’ll drop you a line.”

“Right oh!” said Micky laconically.

“I hope I shall see you again too, Mr. Mellowes,” Mrs. Clare said. She thought she was saying the right thing. She thought these two men were friends, and she was sufficiently in love with Raymond to wish to be liked by his friends.

“Thank you, Mrs. Clare,” Micky said stolidly. “But I am going back to London to-morrow; I am afraid I shall have very little time, though I should be delighted, of course–––”

He felt rather sorry for this woman. After all, she was harmless and good natured, she deserved a better fate than to be snapped up by a good-looking fortune-hunter.

He was getting into his coat in the lounge when Ashton came after him. He looked worried and abashed; he asked a hurried question.

“Everything’s all right, eh, Micky?––Lallie, I mean––I 132 thought from the way you looked just now––she––she’s all right––eh?”

“My dear chap––how should I know? She never answered my letter, though I sent the money, as you wished. I thought you would have heard.”

“I told you I didn’t mean to write––I said that I wanted the whole affair cut out,” Ashton said irritably.

Micky made no response.

“She sure to be all right, anyway,” Ashton said after a moment. “If she hadn’t I should have heard––eh?”

Micky looked at him coolly.

“You rather sound as if you were expecting to hear she’d done something foolish––jumped off Waterloo Bridge or something–––” he said drily.

Ashton laughed. “Well, you never know,” he said heartlessly. “Women are such queer creatures––and Lallie was so excitable; she said more than once that she’d do away with herself––it’s all rot, of course, but ... what did you say?”

“Nothing,” said Micky curtly. “Good-night.” He turned on his heel and went out.