WHEN the Honourable George Tallenach issued from the dark doorway of Carrington Mews into the evening light of Shepherd Market he had no premonition of having come out to meet anything unusual, unless it were the beauty of the close of that perfect spring day. He stood for a moment under the flickering gas lamp twirling the letter he carried between his thumbs, then he crossed the cobbles towards the little shop at the corner where he was in the habit of buying his morning and evening papers. He could see the placards from the moment of coming out, and as he went his hand travelled mechanically towards his pocket to find a penny.

The day's work done, Shepherd Market gossiped and loitered. Sounds travelled in the quiet, and as he stood reading the news-sheets he could hear the clatter of pails from the mews where men washed down motor cars, and the echoes of voices and footsteps in adjacent streets and turnings. His eyes travelled along the newspaper boards expectantly. It was all grist that came to his mill, from Captain Coe's finals to the Irish question, or the opinion of a leading novelist on the novels of the future.

"Sudden death of a Countess." The statement leapt at him in staring black letters, and he stood staring at the words conscious of a feeling of intimate disturbance, and forgetful that he had to make the nightly choice between a "Pall Mall" and a "Westminster". As a matter of fact, though, "The Evening News" placard had taken the decision out of his hands. That paper having made a specialty of the "Sudden death of a Countess," could presumably give some of the particulars.

Of course, he told himself, as he pursued his way with the paper in his pocket, of course there was more than one Countess in existence, and it was pure nervousness on his part to have associated the announcement with Katherine. But even as he so reflected there came the recollection of her face, as he had last seen it from the window of her car. That was a month or more ago, and he had heard nothing of her since. He wished now he had called—he had meant to do so, but had procrastinated as usual. Well, he would call to-morrow. Yes, he would certainly call to-morrow.

He paused at the shop at the corner of East Chapel Street to admire the colour effect of some enamelled candlesticks against a length of orange cretonne, and his hand went towards the pocket in which was the newspaper. "It's too dark to read it here," he muttered, and walked on, carrying the paper in his hand. It was just six o'clock, and the public-house opposite the Serendipity shop was lighting up. If he went inside he would be able to read the paper there. But he didn't go inside. He continued his way through Market Place and across Curzon Street to the post office in Queen Street, where he dropped Agatha's letter in the box. This done, he stood in an attitude of indecision for a minute or two, then, with an effort that left him rather breathless, he drew near the open door through which a light streamed and unfolded the newspaper.

His hands shook, and for a moment the print danced under his eyes. But presently a name separated itself from the blurred characters, the name he had expected to see, and he knew it would not now be necessary to pay the call he had planned to make on the morrow.

Perhaps he had some intention of paying it this evening, for his feet, when he left the post office, led him towards the house in Curzon Street, where Katherine had spent the years of her childless widowhood. As he went he thought, "I wish I'd gone to see her," and those quarter-days, when a cheque for fifty pounds had appeared with clockwork like punctuality by the first post, became so many poignant stabs of recollection. He had sometimes felt aggrieved that the cheque had not been bigger, but at this moment he could find a score of reasons why there should have been no cheque at all. It was hard on Katherine having a brother like himself, living just round the corner. She had tried to carry it off by making a joke of it, but the joke, he suspected, rather hung fire.

There was a peach-coloured sky in the west, and the electric arcs multiplied themselves down the misty street like a string of giant opals. The tall house with the balconies and the shrubs in green boxes loomed ahead, and his pace slowed. The blinds were all down, and there was a light in one of the upper windows. He supposed he ought to go in. There was no one but himself to represent the dead woman. But he did not want to go in. He could not face the loquacious housekeeper to-night. To-morrow—yes, on second thoughts, he would have, after all, to keep that resolution to call at Curzon Street on the morrow, but the errand would be strangely different. He had meant to make the visit an occasion for saying certain kind things to his sister, but, as usual, he had let the opportunity slip. It had gone to swell the ranks of all those other lost chances of his life, and once again he was met by those saddest of all sad words, "Too late".