Jimmy heaved a sigh of relief as he read the telegram. In after years, he looked back on it as the one ray of brightness in the most ghastly day of his life. It did not alter the essential fact that everything had gone to pieces—nothing could alter that—but it made matters less complicated so far as Lalage's immediate future was concerned. He had intended asking his brother-in-law for a loan, and it was a load off his mind to find that Joseph was actually in town. A letter might, probably would, have fallen into Ida's hands, and this was one of those cases where an interview was better than many pages of explanations.

In reply to the telegram, Jimmy wired that he would be at the hotel at nine o'clock. He had given up all idea of going to the office that night, or, rather, of ever going there again. He must get away, at once, from everything which might remind him of the old life. He must cut himself adrift from it, immediately, altogether, if he wished to preserve his sanity. For himself, he cared nothing, at least at the moment; but, though he might never see her again once she had left London, he had to provide for Lalage. The Grierson strain in him had asserted itself in so far as it had made him determine to leave Lalage. He was able now to see her sin and his own, especially hers; but still he could not abandon her to her fate, as a true Grierson would have done, because he had been passionately in love, whilst the love of the true Grierson is always decorous, and truly tempered by financial considerations. The dowerless bride is regarded with coldness; the bride with a past is anathema; there is no road back, at least in the opinion of those who have sub-edited their religion in the interests of propriety.

Jimmy had no difficulty in finding a substitute to take on his work at the Record office, especially when he made it known that there was going to be a vacancy on the staff immediately.

"I'm a bit knocked out," he explained. "The malaria has got hold of me again, and the doctor says I must go out at once."

The other man nodded sympathetically, and suggested a drink. He, himself, had been out of work for nearly six months, and the chance of securing Jimmy's berth had altered the whole outlook for him.

"Yes, you do look off colour," he said. "I've noticed it several times lately. Night work doesn't suit you, I suppose. Now, I'm used to it, been at it for years. Well, I'll give Dodgson this note of yours. It'll be all right. He knows me well enough. So long. Thanks very much for thinking of me."

Jimmy turned wearily, and went down the corridor to the dining-room. He had eaten nothing all day, and it struck him Lalage would be worried if she knew.

"Bring me anything you like," he said to the waiter, but when the plates came he merely took one mouthful, and then sat, staring with unseeing eyes at a paper he had picked up, whilst the gravy grew cold and greasy. He was wondering what Lalage was doing, alone in that little hotel near the General Post Office.

"As long as it's quiet, Jimmy, that's all I care about; and the further from the West End the better. Noise would drive me quite mad, I think," she had said.

So far, he had not tried to analyse his own feelings toward Lalage. All he knew was that he was sounding the lowest depths of misery, and he speculated, more or less vaguely, whether she could understand what he was suffering. He wanted to blame her, in fact he knew that he ought to blame her, that she had betrayed him and had sinned beyond all hope of forgiveness; and yet in his ears there was still ringing her heart-broken wail, "I did it all for you Jimmy, I did it all for you."

At last the voice of the waiter broke in on his thoughts. "You don't seem to like that, sir. Anything I can get for you instead?"

Jimmy started. "No, no. It's quite all right. I don't feel hungry now, that's the only trouble, thanks."

The waiter was a kindly man, and he had seen a good deal of life during nearly thirty years of service in clubs; consequently, he shook his head mournfully as Jimmy went out. "Mr. Grierson's in trouble," he remarked to the carver. "He looks fair broken up, as though he didn't care what came next."

The carver, who had no imagination, grunted. "Got the sack, I suppose," he said, and began to dissect a chicken.

The waiter shook his head again. "That doesn't make a man pay for food he's not going to eat. It's a woman has played the fool with him. I shouldn't be surprised if we don't see him here again. And he's a nice gentleman, too, always polite to you and so on."

Jimmy had an hour and a half to kill before going to Joseph Fenton's hotel, and, ordinarily, he would have spent the time reading or writing in the club; but already the place had become unbearable to him; everything in it seemed to speak to him of Lalage, to remind him of her and of that past which had suddenly become such a horrible memory. Why, it was Lalage herself who had saved up the two guineas to pay his subscription, only a couple of months ago. He went hot at the thought of it, for it brought back the remembrance of so many other things she had done for him. For a moment he hesitated. She was calling him back to her side. "It was all for you, Jimmy, all for you." That part of it was true, whatever else had been false; and she was alone in that gloomy little hotel, eating her heart out, conscious that she had lost him. She had betrayed his trust because she loved him so well, because she could not bear to part with him—for a few seconds he understood that, and felt he could forgive everything; but an instant later he was a Grierson again. She had lied to him; she had been false to him in the greatest of all things; and there could be no forgiveness. His people had found her out, had proved to him what she really was, and he could not give them up for her, knowing that she understood nothing of honour or truth. So, instead of going to the hotel in the City, Jimmy went westwards, slowly, listlessly, with no aim but to kill time. The Strand was thronged with its night population, just as it had been on the first evening of his return; but now he looked on everyone with suspicion, almost with hatred. Any of these men might know his secret, might have heard of him from Lalage and have laughed at him. There was madness in the thought, and his eyes gleamed so suddenly that a policeman in plain clothes, having noticed him, thought it well to follow him for a while; but the fit passed almost as quickly as it had come on, and he became listless again, shuffling his feet a little on the pavement, as though utterly weary and disillusioned.

The women caught his eye now, hard-faced, painted, weirdly-dressed, and he began to wonder how they could possibly attract anyone, and to compare them with Lalage. She had never looked like that, there had been no sort of kinship between her and these creatures, and yet—she had confessed that May's charges were true.

His way to the hotel led him in the direction of the flat. At first, he was inclined to avoid the little back street, for fear that he might be recognised and pointed at; then the longing to have one more look overcame the fear, and he turned up the road where the barrows were, past the ham and beef shop, and came opposite the grimy mansion. It seemed but natural to glance upwards at what had been Lalage's windows; though it gave him a shock to see that, whilst the curtains had been torn down, leaving a broken tape hanging forlornly, there was a light in the rooms; then he noticed, for the first time, that there was a van outside the front entrance. They were just finishing the task of clearing out the flat.

From the shelter of a big gateway opposite, Jimmy watched them bring down Lalage's own chair and a wash hand stand which he himself had made for her out of an old packing case in those early days before London had taken the life out of him. Then, suddenly, the light upstairs was extinguished, and a few minutes later a short, stout man in a seedy frock coat and decrepit silk hat came down the steps, and ordered the van to drive away.

"That's the lot," he said. "Now get back to the shop quick. These things may have to go out again to-morrow. Tell Mr. Gluck to have them polished up first thing in the morning." Then he mopped his forehead with an uncleanly bandana handkerchief, and made his way to a public-house lower down the street. Jimmy followed him thither with no definite object, save perhaps a kind of morbid curiosity.

The publican greeted the furniture dealer with a friendly nod. "Clearing another out, Mr. Ludwig?"

The other grunted assent. "One of the soft sort. She ran away. It just comes in right, as I have another customer for the goods, and there was a lot paid on them. Pretty girl she was, too," and he gave a leer which made Jimmy go red first and then very white, and leave hurriedly without touching the whisky he had ordered.

Joseph Fenton was waiting for his brother-in-law in the hall of his hotel. Jimmy, scarcely knowing what sort of reception to expect, had come in white-faced and hard-eyed, but the elder man's handshake eased his mind at once.

Fenton led the way into the smoking-room, selected a couple of chairs in the further corner, then held out his cigar case. "Have a smoke?" he said.

Jimmy helped himself, and, for a minute or two, they smoked in silence; then:

"This is a bit of an upset, Jimmy," Joseph remarked; getting no reply beyond a curt nod, he went on, "I'm not going to talk to you about the moral side of it—I expect your sisters have done that, too much perhaps—but what is this girl going to do now? You can't let her starve."

"Ida and May say she ought to," Jimmy answered grimly. The elder man made a gesture of annoyance. "I know. Ida told me, and we disagreed." He paused and stared at the smoke curling upwards from his cigar, as though trying to find inspiration in it. He was always a little slow and awkward in his speech, and now he seemed worse than ever; but at last he went on: "Look here, Jimmy, I went through much the same sort of thing myself, before I was engaged to your sister, so I understand. You see? My people found out and sent me abroad; and I didn't hear of the girl again until it was too late." He sighed heavily, and stared once more at the cigar smoke.

Jimmy looked up. "What had happened?" he asked.

Joseph started. "She had drowned herself." He spoke very quietly, but none the less Jimmy realised what the memory meant to this man whom he had always thought a little dull and prosaic. "When I let them ship me away—I was only a youngster at the time—I thought they would help her to get a fresh start, but they didn't. It's spoilt my life, and that's why I don't want yours spoilt. At least give her the chance to go right." He drew a packet of bank-notes from his pocket. "Here's fifty to go on with. Come to me when you want some more. Only, send her right away, where you won't be tempted to go and see her. You must drop it now. There can be no question of your marrying her; and there's only misery in this free love, as you, yourself, have seen."

Jimmy held out his hand gratefully. "It's awfully good of you, Joseph. I was coming to you for a loan when I got your wire. She,"—somehow he could not bring himself to mention Lalage's name,—"she is only too anxious to get away from town, and this money will make it possible. I suppose in time she'll get something to do; but there's been no time to make plans yet."

"Well, let me know when you want some more money. Write to the office, not to the house. I only wish you had asked me before this happened. I've been pretty successful, at least in business; but that's not everything." He paused and then went on, in short, jerky sentences. "Don't marry a saint, Jimmy. They're better to watch than to live with. Your sister never forgives anything, and that's a big mistake. It makes life hard sometimes. I suppose I'm getting a bit old, and I feel things. The doctor says I must be careful."

Jimmy glanced at him keenly; although his mind was full of his own troubles, it had struck him that Joseph looked far from well. "Is there anything special the matter?" he asked.

Joseph nodded. "Heart," he answered briefly. "Well, I'm glad I've seen you. Don't say anything about it to Ida. I think I'll go up now, I'm feeling a little tired. Good night, Jimmy. Give her a chance to go straight, and then try to forget her."

It was the following afternoon, when Jimmy got back to the club after having seen Lalage off at the station, that he found a note from May awaiting him.

"You will be shocked to hear," May wrote, "that Joseph was discovered dead in bed this morning. The doctor says it was heart disease. I need hardly say that Ida is terribly upset."

Two or three days later, Jimmy learnt that his brother-in-law had left him a thousand pounds.