Kensington Palace Gardens, whither Ashley Mead hastened early on Tuesday morning, was not the same place to him as it had been. The change went deeper than any mere shadow of illness or atmosphere of affliction. There was alienation, a sense of difference, the feeling of a suppressed quarrel. The old man knew him, but greeted him with a feeble fretfulness, Lady Muddock was distantly and elaborately polite, even in Bob a constraint appeared. Alice received him kindly, but there was no such gladness at his coming as had seemed to be foreshadowed by her summons of him. Was she resentful that he had not come the day before? That was likely enough, for his excuses of pressing business did not sound very convincing even to himself. But here again he sought a further explanation and found it in a state of things curiously unwelcome to him. It may be easy to abdicate; it is probably harder to stand by patiently while the new monarch asserts his sway and receives homage. Bertie Jewett was in command at Kensington Palace Gardens; when Sir James could talk he called Bertie and conferred with him; on him now Lady Muddock leaned, to him Bob abandoned the position by birth his own; it was his advice which Alice repeated, his opinions which she quoted to Ashley Mead as they took a turn together in the garden. Both business and family, the big house and the big block, owned a new master; Bertie's star rose steadily.

Ashley was prepared with infinite scorn. He watched the upstart with an eye acute to mark his lapses of breeding, of taste, and of tact, to discern the vulgarity through affected ease, the coarseness of mind beneath the superficial helpfulness. Something of all these he contrived to see or to persuade himself that he saw, but a whole-hearted confident contempt denied itself to him. There is a sort of man intolerable while he is making his way, while he pushes and disputes and shoulders for place; the change which comes over him when his position is won, and what he deems his rights acknowledged, is often little less than marvellous. It is as though the objectionable qualities, which had seemed so ingrained in him and so part of him that they must be his from cradle to grave and perhaps beyond, were after all only armour he has put on or weapons he has taken into his hand of his own motion, to do his work; the work done they are laid aside, or at least so hidden as merely to suggest what before they displayed offensively. So concealed, they are no longer arrogant or domineering, but only imply a power in reserve; they do no more than remind the rash of what has been and may be again. In part this great transformation had passed over Bertie Jewett; the neat compact figure, the resolute eye, the determined mouth, the brief confident directions, wrung even from Ashley admiration and an admission that, if (as poor old Sir James used to say) the "stuff" was in himself, it was in Bertie also, and probably in fuller measure. Neither business nor family would lack a good counsellor and a bold leader; neither family nor business would suffer by the substitution of Bertie for himself. Watching his successor, he seemed to himself to have become superfluous, suddenly to have lost his place in the inmost hearts of these people, and to have fallen back to the status of a mere ordinary friendship.

Was that in truth Alice's mood towards him? It was not, but his jealous acuteness warned him that it soon might be. She did not tell him now that she disliked Bertie Jewett; she praised Bertie with repentant generosity, seeking opportunities to retract without too much obtrusiveness the hard things she had said, and fastening with eager hand on all that could be commended. Ashley walked by her, listening.

"Where we should be without him now I don't know," she said. "I can't do much, and Bob—well, Bob wants somebody to guide him."

"I hope you'll let me be of any use I can," he said; in spite of himself the words sounded idle and empty.

"You're most kind, Ashley, always, but I don't think there's anything we need trouble you about for the present. We don't expect any immediate change in father."

"When I said I wouldn't have anything to do with the business, I didn't include Kensington Palace Gardens in the word."

"Oh, I know you didn't. Indeed I'll ask you for help when I want it."

He was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, "You agreed with me about the business. Do you still think I was right?"

"I'm more than ever sure of it," she answered with a direct gaze at him. "I grow surer of it every day. It wasn't the least suited to you; nor you to it, you know." She smiled as she spoke the last words.

"And Jewett's in his element?"

"I hear he's wonderfully able, and he's very nice and considerate about everything too. Oh, no, you'd never have done for it."

What she said was what she had always said; she had always been against his selling the ribbons, had thought that he was too good to sell ribbons and loved him for this very thing. But the same words may carry most different implications; was not the idea in her head now that, if it would not have been good for him to sell the ribbons, neither would it have been good for the ribbons nor for the family whose prosperity depended on them? Her smile had been indulgent rather than admiring; he accused her of reverting to the commercial view of life and of suffering a revival of the family prejudices and of the instinct for getting and reverencing wealth. He felt further from her and detected a corresponding feeling in her. He studied her in the light of that unreasonable resentment with which Bertie Jewett inspired him; he saw that she read him in the light of her judgment of Ora Pinsent; and he knew tolerably well what she thought and said of Ora Pinsent. They were further apart. Yet at the end old kindliness revived and he clasped her hand very heartily.

"I'm always at your orders," he said. "Always."

She smiled; did she intend to remind him that the day before he had neglected her summons? His conscience gave her smile that meaning, and he could not tell her that he had been obliged to play jailer to Mr. Fenning—for Mr. Fenning had not come! But her smile was not reproachful; it was still indulgent. She seemed to expect him to say such things, to know he would, to accept them as his sincere meaning at the time, but not to expect too much from them, not to take them quite literally, not to rely on them with the simple ample faith that the words of a solid trustworthy man receive. The love that has lived on admiration may live with indulgence; she seemed still to love him although now with opened eyes. And when he was gone, she turned back to the business of life with a sigh, to business and Bertie Jewett. Back she went to work, and in her work Ashley Mead had no longer a place.

At this time, among his conquests—and they were over himself as well as others—Bertie Jewett achieved a complete victory over Irene Kilnorton's old dislike of him. He was so helpful, so unobtrusive, so strong, so different from feather-headed people who were here one moment and elsewhere the next, whom you never knew where to have. She had what was nearly a quarrel with Bowdon because he observed that, when all was said and done, Bertie was not a gentleman.

"Nonsense, Frank," she said tartly. "He only wants to go into society a little more. In all essentials he's a perfect gentleman."

Bowdon shook his head in impenetrable, silent, male obstinacy. He was not apt at reasons or definitions, but he knew when he did and when he did not see a gentleman before him; he and his ancestors had spent generations in acquiring this luxury of knowledge. His shake of the head exasperated Irene.

"I like him very much," she said. "He has just the qualities that made me like you. One can depend on him; he's not harum-scarum and full of whims. You can trust yourself with men like that."

"I hope I'm not as dull as I sound, my dear," said Bowdon patiently.

"Dull! Who said you were dull? I said I could trust you, and I said I could trust Bertie Jewett. Oh, I don't mean to say he's fascinating like Ashley Mead. At least I suppose Ashley is fascinating to most people."

"Most women anyhow," murmured Bowdon.

"I consider," said Irene solemnly, "that Ora Pinsent has done him infinite harm."

"Poor Miss Pinsent!"

"Oh, yes, of course it's 'Poor Miss Pinsent'! If you'd been in the Garden of Eden you'd have said nothing but 'Poor Eve'! But, Frank—"

"Yes, dear."

"I believe Alice is getting tired of him at last."

Here was a useful conquest—and a valuable ally—for Bertie Jewett. Bowdon perceived the bent of Irene's thoughts.

"Good God!" he muttered gently, between half-opened lips. Then he smiled to himself a little ruefully. Was Alice also to seek a refuge? Remorse came hard on the heels of this ungracious thought, and he kissed Irene gallantly.

"Suppose," he suggested, "that you were to be content with looking after your own wedding for the present and leave Miss Muddock to look after hers."

Irene, well pleased, returned his kiss, but she also nodded sagaciously, and said that if he waited he would see.

Bowdon was now so near his marriage, so near inviolable safety, that he allowed himself the liberty of thinking about Ora Pinsent and consequently of Ashley Mead. That the husband had not come—Babba's triumphant telegram was still in his pocket—surprised as much as it annoyed him. In absence from Ora he was able to condemn her with a heartiness which his fiancÉe herself need not have despised; that his condemnation could not be warranted to outlast a single interview with its object was now no matter to him, but merely served to explain the doings of Ashley. Ashley was hopelessly in the toils, this was clear enough. Strangely hovering between self-congratulation on his own escape and envy of the man who had not run away, Bowdon asked what was to be the end, and, as a man of the world, saw but one end. Ashley would pay dear and would feel every penny of the payment. His was a nature midway between Ora's and Irene's, perhaps it had something even of Alice Muddock's; he had a foot in either camp. Reason struggled with impulse in him, and when he yielded he was still conscious of what he lost. He could not then be happy, and he would hardly find contentment in not being very unhappy. He must be tossed about and torn in two. Whither would he go in the end? "Anyhow I'm safe," was Bowdon's unexpressed thought, given new life and energy by the news that Ora Pinsent's husband had not come. For now the tongues would be altogether unchained, and defence of her hopeless. Had she ever meant him to come, ever believed that he was coming, ever done more than fling a little unavailing dust in the world's keen eyes? The memory of her, strong even in its decay, rose before him, and forbade him to embrace heartily what was Irene's and would be everybody's theory. But what other theory was there?

Bowdon was living in his father's house in Park Lane, and these meditations brought him to the door. A servant awaited him with the news that Ashley was in the library and wanted to see him. The business of their Commission brought Ashley often, and it was with only a faint sense of coincidence that Bowdon went in to meet him. Ashley was sitting on a sofa, staring at the ceiling. He sprang up as Bowdon entered; there was a curious nervousness in his air.

"Here you are, Bowdon!" he cried. Bowdon noticed, without resenting, the omission of his title; hitherto, in deference to seniority and Bowdon's public position, Ashley had insisted on saying "Lord Bowdon." He inferred that Ashley's mind was busy.

"Here I am, Ashley. What do you want? More witnesses, more reports, what is it?"

"It's not the Commission at all."

"Take a cigar and tell me what it is."

Ashley obeyed and began to smoke quickly; he stood now, while Bowdon dropped into a chair.

"In about a month I shall have seven hundred pounds coming in," said Ashley. "Just now I've only a hundred at the bank."

"Present economy and the prospect of future recompense," said Bowdon, smiling.

"I want five hundred now, to-day. They'll give it me at the bank if I get another name. Will you—?"

"I won't give you my name, but I'll lend you five hundred."

Ashley looked down at him. "Thank you," he said. "Do you trust your servant?"

"More than you, Ashley, and I'm lending you five hundred."

"Then send him round to the bank."

"My good fellow, I can write a cheque."

"No, I want five hundred-pound notes—new ones," said Ashley, with his first glimmer of a smile.

"Very well," said Bowdon. He went to the table, wrote a cheque, rang the bell, and, when his personal servant had been summoned, repeated Ashley's request. "Very good, my lord," said the man, and vanished. Bowdon lit a cigarette and resumed his seat.

"It's for—," Ashley began.

"As you like about that," said Bowdon. "Only why were they to be new hundred-pound notes?"

"In order to appeal to the imagination. I'm going to tell you about it."

"As long as it's because you want and not because I want, all right."

"I believe I'm going to do a damned rascally thing."

"Can't you keep it to yourself then?" asked Bowdon, with a plaintive intonation and a friendly look. "At present I've lent you five hundred. That's all! They can't hit me."

"I want somebody to know besides me, and I've chosen you."

"Oh, all right," muttered Bowdon resignedly.

Ashley walked twice across the room and came to a stand again opposite his friend.

"The notes are for Miss Pinsent's husband," said he.

Bowdon looked up quickly.

"Hullo!" said he, with lifted brows.

"I mean what I say; for Fenning."

"As the price of not coming?"

"Who told you he hadn't come?"

"Babba Flint; but it's all over the place by now."

"Babba's wrong," said Ashley. "He came on Sunday night. The notes are to bribe him to go away again."

There was a pause; then Bowdon said slowly:

"I should like to hear a bit more about this, if you don't mind, Ashley. The money's yours. I promised it. But still—since you've begun, you know!"

"Yes, I know," said Ashley quickly. "Look here, I'll tell you all about it."

The hands ticked the best part of the way round the clock while Ashley talked without pause and uninterrupted, save once when the notes were brought in and laid on the table. He told how the man had come, what the man was, how Ora had fled from him, and how, while the man moved about in the room above, he himself had told her that the man had not come. He broke off here for an instant to say, "You can understand how I came to tell her that?" On receiving Bowdon's assenting nod he went on to describe how for two days he had kept his prisoner quiet; but now he must take some step. "I must take him to her, or I must murder him, or I must bribe him," he ended, with the laugh that accompanies what is an exaggeration in sound but in reality not beyond truth.

"I don't like it," said Bowdon at the end.

"You haven't seen him as I have," was Ashley's quick retort. To him it seemed all sufficient.

"Used to beat her, did he?" Bowdon was instinctively bolstering up the case. Ashley hesitated a little in his answer.

"She said he struck her once. I'm bound to say he doesn't seem violent. Drink, I suppose. And she—well, it might seem worse than it was. Why the devil are we to consider him? He's impossible anyhow."

"I wasn't considering him. I was considering ourselves."

"I'm considering her."

"Oh, I know your state of mind. Well, and if he takes the money and goes?"

"She'll be quit of him. It'll be as it was before."

"Will it?" asked Bowdon quietly. The two men regarded one another with a long and steady gaze. Ashley's eyes did not shirk the encounter.

"I mean that," he said at last. "But—." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. He would do his best, but he could answer for nothing. He invited Bowdon to take his stand by him, to fix his attention only on saving her the ordeal which had proved beyond her strength, just to spare her pain, to ask nothing of what lay beyond, not to look too anxiously at the tools they were using or the dirt that the tools might leave on their hands. Bowdon gained a sudden understanding of what Irene Kilnorton had meant by saying that Ora did Ashley infinite harm; but above this recognition and in spite of it rose his old cry so scorned by Irene, "Poor Ora Pinsent!" To him as to Ashley Mead the thought of carrying this man to Ora Pinsent and saying, "You sent for him, here he is," was well nigh intolerable.

They were both men who had lived, as men like them mostly live, without active religious feelings, without any sense of obligation to do good, but bound in the strictest code of honour, Pharisees in the doctrine and canons of that law, fierce to resent the most shamefaced prompting of any passion which violated it. A rebel rose against it—was it not rebellion?—drawing strength from nowhere save from the pictured woe in Ora Pinsent's eyes. They sat smoking in silence, and now looked no more at one another.

"It's got nothing to do with me," Bowdon broke out once.

"Then take back your money," said Ashley with a wave of his hand towards the notes on the table.

"You're on the square with me, anyhow," said Bowdon with a reluctant passing smile. He wished that Ashley had been less scrupulous and had taken his money without telling him what use he meant to put it to.

"I tell you what, you'd better come and see the fellow," said Ashley. "That'll persuade you I'm right, if anything will."

Bowdon had become anxious to be persuaded that the thing was right, or at least so excusable as to be near enough to the right, as to involve no indefensible breach of his code, no crying protest from his honour; if the sight of the man would convince him, he was ready and eager to see the man. Besides, he had a curiosity. Ora had married the man; this adventitious interest hung about Jack Fenning still.

"Pocket the notes, and come along," he said, rising.

They were very silent as they drove down to Ashley's rooms. The affair did not need, and perhaps would not bear, much talking about; if one of them happened to put it in the wrong way they would both feel very uncomfortable; it could be put in a right way, they said to themselves, but so much care was needed for this that silence seemed safer. Bowdon was left in Ashley's rooms while Ashley went upstairs to fetch Mr. Fenning, whom he found smoking his pipe and staring out of the window. Ashley had made up his mind to carry matters with a high hand.

"I want you downstairs a minute or two," he said curtly.

"All right; I shall be jolly glad of a change," said Jack, with his feeble smile. "It's pretty slow here, I can tell you."

"Hope you won't have much more of it," Ashley remarked, as he led the way downstairs.

To suggest to a man that he is of such a disposition as to be ready to surrender his claim to his wife's society, take himself off for good, and leave her fate in the hands of gentlemen who are not related to her in consideration of five hundred pounds, is to intimate that you hold a very peculiar opinion of him. Even with Jack Fenning Ashley felt the difficulties of the position. Bowdon gave him no help, but sat by, watching attentively. The high-handed way was the only way; but it seemed rather brutal to bully the creature.

Ashley began. In a pitiless fashion he hinted to Jack what he was, and hazarded the surmise that he set out to rejoin his wife for much the same reason which Babba Flint had thought would appeal to him. Bowdon waited for the outbreak of anger and the flame of resentment. Jack smiled apologetically and rubbed his hands against one another.

The other two exchanged a glance; their work grew easier; it seemed also to grow more disgusting. The man was passive in their hands; they had it all to do; the responsibility was all theirs.

"We propose, Mr. Fenning, that you should return to America at once, without seeing Miss Pinsent or informing her of your arrival. You have lost time and incurred expense—and—er—no doubt you're disappointed. We shall consider all this in a liberal spirit." Ashley's speech ended here; he was inclined to add, "I'll deal with you as one scoundrel with another."

"Go back now, without seeing her?" Was there actually a sparkle of pleasure, or relief, or thankfulness in his eye? Ashley nodded, took out the notes, and laid them on the table. Bowdon shifted his feet, lit a cigarette, and looked away from his companions out of the window.

"I have here five hundred pounds. If you'll take the first boat and slip away without letting your—er—visit be known to anybody, I'll hand them over to you, when you step on board."

Jack shook his head thoughtfully. "You see I'm out of a place," he said. "I threw up my position to come."

He was haggling about the price, nothing else; Bowdon got up and opened the window.

"I made a sacrifice for the sake of returning to Miss Pinsent; my expenses have been—"

"For God's sake, how much do you want?" said Bowdon, turning round on him.

"There's a little spec I know of—" began Jack, with a confidential smile.

"How much?" said Ashley.

"I think you ought to run to a thousand, Mr. Mead. A thousand's not much for—"

"Doing what you're doing? No, it's damned little," said Ashley Mead.

"Give him the money, Ashley," said Bowdon from the window.

"All right, I'll give it you when I see you on board. Mind you hold your tongue while you're here!"

Jack was smiling happily; he seemed like a man who has brought off a great coup which was almost beyond his hopes, in which, at least, he had never expected to succeed so readily and easily. Looking at him, Ashley could not doubt that if he and Bowdon had not furnished means for the "little spec" Ora Pinsent would have been asked to supply them.

"I shall be very glad to go back. I never wanted to come. I didn't want to bother Miss Pinsent. I've my own friends." There was a sort of bravado about him now. "Somebody'll be glad to see me, anyhow," he ended with a laugh.

"No doubt," said Ashley Mead; his tone was civil; he loathed Mr. Fenning more and more, but it was not the moment for him to get on moral stilts. Bowdon was as though he had become unconscious of Jack's proximity.

"There's a boat to-morrow; I'll try for a passage on that."

"The sooner the better," Ashley said.

"Yes, the sooner the better," said Fenning. He looked doubtfully at the two men and glanced across to a decanter of whiskey which stood on a side table.

"Then we needn't say any more," Ashley remarked, hastily gathering the crisp notes in his hand; Jack eyed them longingly. "I'll see you again to-night. Good-bye." He nodded slightly. Bowdon sat motionless. Again Jack looked at both, and his face fell a little. Then he brightened up; there was whiskey upstairs also. "Good afternoon," he said, and moved towards the door; he did not offer to shake hands with Bowdon; he knew that Bowdon would not wish to shake hands with him; and the knowledge did not trouble him.

"Oh, Ashley, my boy, Ashley!" groaned Bowdon when the door closed behind Mr. Fenning.

"He came to blackmail her."

"Evidently. But—I say, Ashley, was he always like that?"

"Of course not," said Ashley Mead almost fiercely. "He must have been going down hill for years. Good God, Bowdon, you know the change liquor and a life like his make in a man."

"Yes, yes, of course," muttered Bowdon.

"Thank heaven we've saved her from seeing him as he is now!"

"I'm glad of that too." Bowdon rose and flung the window open more widely. "Tell you what, Ashley," he said, "it seems to me the room stinks."

Ashley made no answer; he smiled, but not in mirth.

There was a knock at the door. Ashley went to open it. Jack Fenning was there.

"I beg pardon, Mr. Mead," he said, "but if you'll give me a sheet of paper, I'll write for the passage; and I may have to pay something extra for going back by this boat."

"I'll look after that. Here's paper." And he hustled Mr. Fenning out.

At the moment a tread became audible on the stairs. Ashley stood where he was. "Somebody coming," he said to Bowdon. "Hope he won't catch Fenning!" Then came voices. The two men listened; the door was good thick oak, and the voices were dim. "I know that voice," said Ashley. "Who the deuce is it?"

"It's a man, anyhow," said Bowdon. He had entertained a wild fear that the visitor might be Ora herself; the scheme of things had a way of playing tricks such as that.

"Well, good-bye," said the voice, not Jack Fenning's. They heard Jack going upstairs; at the same moment came the shutting of his door and a knock at Ashley's. With a glance at Bowdon, warning him to be discreet, Ashley opened it. Mr. Sidney Hazlewood stood on the threshold.

"Glad to find you in," he said, entering. "How are you, Bowdon? I want your advice, Mead. Somebody's stealing a piece of mine and I thought you'd be able to tell me what to do. You're a lawyer, you see."

"Yes, in my spare time," said Ashley. "Sit down."

Hazlewood sat and began to take off his gloves.

"You've got a queer neighbour upstairs, that fellow Foster," he said. "He told me he'd made your acquaintance too."

"He's only here for a day or two, and I had to be civil."

"Funny my meeting him. I used to come across him in the States. Don't you be too civil."

"I know he's no great catch," said Ashley.

"He lived by his wits out there, and very badly at that. In fact he'd have gone under altogether if he'd been left to himself."

Ashley felt that Bowdon's eyes were on him, but Bowdon took no share in the talk.

"Who looked after him then?" he asked.

"His wife," said Hazlewood. "She used to walk on, or get a small part, or sing at the low-class halls, or anything you like. Handsome girl in a coarse style. Daisy Macpherson, that's what they called her. She kept him more or less going; he always did what she told him." He paused, and added with a reflective smile, "I mean she said she was his wife, and liked to be called Mrs. Foster in private life."

This time neither Bowdon nor Ashley spoke. Hazlewood glanced at them and seemed to be struck with the idea that they were not much interested in Foster and the lady who was, or said she was, his wife.

"But I didn't come to talk about that," he went on rather apologetically. "Only it was odd my meeting the fellow."

"Oh, I don't know," said Ashley carelessly. "What's the play, Hazlewood, and who's the thief?"