Mr. Blodwell was entertaining Lord Mapledurham at luncheon at the Themis Club. The Marquis was not in an agreeable mood. He was ill, and when he was ill he was apt to be cross. His host’s calm satisfaction with the issue of the Neston affair irritated him.

“Really, Blodwell,” he said, “I sometimes think a lawyer’s wig is like Samson’s hair. When he takes it off, he takes off all his wits with it. Your simplicity is positively childish.”

Mr. Blodwell gurgled contentedly over a basin of soup.

“I think no evil unless I’m paid for it,” he said, wiping his mouth. “George found he was wrong, and said so.”

“I saw the girl in the Park yesterday,” the Marquis remarked. “She’s a pretty girl.”

“Uncommonly. But I’m not aware that being pretty makes a girl a thief.”

“No, but it makes a man a fool.”

“My dear Mapledurham!”

“Did he ever tell you what he found out at Liverpool?”

“Did he go to Liverpool?”

“Did he go? God bless the man! Of course he went, to look for——”

Lord Mapledurham stopped, to see who was throwing a shadow over his plate.

“May I join you?” asked Sidmouth Vane, who thought he was conferring a privilege. “I’m interested in what you are discussing.”

“Oh, it’s you, is it? Have you been listening?”

“No, but everybody’s discussing it. Now, I agree with you, Lord Mapledurham. It’s a put-up job.”

“I expect you thought it was a put-up job when they baptised you, didn’t you?” inquired the Marquis.

“And looked for poison in your bottle?” added Blodwell.

Vane gently waved his hand, as if to scatter these clumsy sarcasms. “A man may not be sixty and yet not be an ass,” he languidly observed. “Waiter, some salmon, and a pint of 44.”

“And may be sixty and yet be an ass, eh?” said the Marquis, chuckling.

“Among ourselves, why do you suppose he let her off?” asked Vane.

The Marquis pushed back his chair. “My young friend, you are too wise. Something will happen to you.”

“Hallo!” exclaimed Vane, “here’s Gerald Neston.”

Gerald came hastily up to Mr. Blodwell. “Do you know where George is?” he asked.

“I believe he’s in the club somewhere,” answered Mr. Blodwell.

“No, he isn’t. I want to see him on business.”

Lord Mapledurham rose. “I know your father, Mr. Neston,” he said. “You must allow me to shake hands with you, and congratulate you on your approaching marriage.”

Gerald received his congratulations with an absent air. “I must go and find George,” he said, and went out.

“There!” said Vane, triumphantly. “Don’t you see there’s something up now?”

The elder men tried to snub him, but they glanced at one another and silently admitted that it looked as if he were right.

Mrs. Bort’s letter had stirred into activity all the doubts that Gerald Neston had tried to stifle, and had at last succeeded in silencing. There was a darkly mysterious tone about the document that roused his suspicions. Either there was a new and a more unscrupulous plot against his bride, or else—— Gerald did not finish his train of thought, but he determined to see Neaera at once, as George could not be found without a journey to the Temple, and a journey to the Temple was twice as far as a journey to Albert Mansions. Nevertheless, had Gerald known what was happening at the Temple, he would have gone there first; for in George’s chambers, at that very moment, George was sitting in his chair, gazing blankly at Neaera Witt, who was walking restlessly up and down.

“You sent her ten pounds?” he gasped.

“Yes, yes,” said Neaera. “I can’t let the creature starve.”

“But why in the world did she send it back to Gerald?”

“Oh, can’t you see? Why, you said you were Gerald; at least, it came to that.”

“And she meant to send it to me?”

“Yes, but I had told her my Mr. Neston was Lord Tottlebury’s son; so I suppose the letter has gone to Gerald. It must have, if you haven’t got it.”

“But why should she send it to either of us?”

“Oh, because I said I sent it with Mr. Neston’s approval.”

“That wasn’t true.”

“Of course not. But it sounded better.”

“Ah, it’s dangerous work.”

“I should never have done it, if I had foreseen this.”

George knew that this represented Neaera’s extreme achievement in penitence, and did not press the question.

“What a wretch the woman is,” Neaera continued. “Oh, what is to be done? Gerald is sure to ask for an explanation.”

“Quite possible, I should think.”

“Well, then, I am lost.”

“You’d better tell him all about it.”

“I can’t; indeed I can’t. You won’t, will you? Oh, you will stand by me?”

“I don’t know what Mrs. Bort has said, and so——”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. George rose and opened it. “What is it, Timms?”

“Mr. Gerald, sir, wants to see you on important business.”

“Is he in his room?”

“Yes, sir. I told him you were engaged.”

“You didn’t tell him Mrs. Witt was here?”

“No, sir.”

“Say I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

George shut the door, and said, “Gerald’s here, and wants to see me.”

“Gerald! Then he has got the letter!”

“What do you propose to do, Mrs. Witt?”

“How can I tell? I don’t know what she said. She only told me she had sent back the money, and told him why.”

“If she told him why——”

“I’m ruined,” said Neaera, wringing her hands.

George stood with his back to the fireplace, and regarded her critically. After a moment’s pause, he said, with a smile,

“I knew it all—and you were not ruined.”

“Ah, you are so good!”

“Nonsense,” said George, with a broader smile.

Neaera looked up at him, and smiled too.

“Mightn’t you risk it? Of course, truth is dangerous, but he’s very fond of you.”

“Won’t you help me?”

A heavy step and the sound of impatient pushing of furniture were heard from the next room.

“Gerald is getting tired of waiting,” said George.

“Won’t you do anything?” asked Neaera again, barely repressing a sob.

“Supposing I were willing to lie, where is a possible lie? How can I explain it?”

Timms knocked and entered. Gerald begged for a minute’s interview, on pressing business.

“In a moment,” said George. Then, turning to Neaera, he added brusquely, “Come, you must decide, Mrs. Witt.”

Neaera was no longer in a condition to decide anything. Tears were her ready refuge in time of trouble, and she was picturesquely weeping—for she possessed that rare gift—in the old leathern arm-chair.

“Will you leave it to me?” asked George. “I’ll do the best I can.”

Neaera sobbed forth the opinion that George was her only friend.

“I shall tell him everything,” said George. “Do you authorise me to do that?”

“Oh, how miserable I am!—oh, yes, yes.”

“Then stop crying, and try to look nice.”

“Why?”

“Because I shall bring him in.”

“Oh!” cried Neaera in dismay. But when George went out, she made her hair a little rougher—for so paradoxically do ladies set about the task of ordering their appearance—and anointed her eyes with the contents of a mysterious phial, produced from a recondite pocket. Then she sat up straight, and strained her ears to catch any sound from the next room, where her fate was being decided. She could distinguish which of the two men was speaking, but not the words. First Gerald, then George, then Gerald again. Next, for full five minutes, George talked in low but seemingly emphatic tones. Then came a sudden shout from Gerald.

“Here!” he cried. “In your room!”

They had risen, and were moving about. Neaera’s heart beat, though she sat still as a statue. The door was flung open, and she rose to meet Gerald, as he entered with a rush. George followed, with a look of mingled anger and perplexity on his face. Gerald flung a piece of paper at Neaera; it was Mrs. Bort’s letter, and, as it fell at her feet, she sank back again in her chair, with a bitter little cry. The worst had happened.

“Thank God for an honest woman!” cried Gerald.

“Gerald!” she murmured, stretching out her hands to him.

“Ah, you can do that to him!” he answered, pointing to George.

“I—I loved you,” she said.

“He’ll believe you, perhaps—or help you in your lies. I’ve done with you.”

He passed his hand over his brow, and went on. “I was easy to hoodwink, wasn’t I? Only a little wheedling and fondling—only a kiss or two—and a lie or two! I believed it all. And you,” he added, turning on George, “you spared her, you pitied her, you sacrificed yourself. A fine sacrifice!”

George put his hands in his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t go on before Mrs. Witt,” he remarked.

“Not go on! No, no. She’s so pure, so innocent, isn’t she? Worth any sacrifice?”

“What do you mean, Gerald?” said Neaera.

“You don’t know?” he asked, with a sneer. “What does a man ask for what he’s done? and what will a woman give? Will give? Has given?”

“Hold your tongue!” said George, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Neaera sat still, gazing at her lover with open eyes: only a little shudder ran over her.

“You duped me nicely between you,” Gerald continued, “me and all the world. No truth in it all! A mistake!—all a mistake! He found out—his mistake!” His voice rose almost to a shriek, and ended in a bitter laugh.

“You needn’t be a brute,” said George, coldly.

Gerald looked at him, then at Neaera, and uttered another sneering laugh. George was close by him now, seeming to watch every motion of his lips. Neaera rose from her chair, and flung herself at the feet of the angry man.

“Ah, Gerald, my love, have pity!” she wailed.

“Pity!” he echoed, drawing back, so that she fell on her face before him. “Pity! I might pity a thief, I might pity a liar, I have no pity for a——”

The sentence went unfinished, for, with a sudden motion, George closed on him, and flung him through the open door out of the room.

“Finish your blackguardism outside!” he said, as he shut the door and turned the key.