A misty evening had followed the sunshine of the day. The lights in Liverpool Street, in shop-windows, street-lamps, and the lamps of a thousand crossing and recrossing vehicles, flared red and large through the slight fog. Luggage-laden cabs clattered down the flagged incline of the station, sounding a hard treble to the thundering bass of the street and city above. Down the sides of the incline streamed the throng of work people and belated clerks hurrying to their trains. The station portico beyond seemed a dark vortex into which this seething life was sucked with irresistible swiftness. There, in the uncertain light, was the bustle of porters unloading cabs, the quick rattle of trucks and barrows, the ceaseless patter of feet, the din of voices. It was an eddying whirl of vague shapes appearing for a moment from the fog and vanishing after a flash of passage.

Roderick stood by the wall, gazing anxiously at each cab as it stopped and deposited its fare. He had taken the two tickets, registered his luggage through to Amsterdam, and now was waiting in feverish suspense for Ella. Would she come? He looked at his watch. It was only five minutes past eight, and he had been watching for her since the quarter to the hour. He threw away a cigarette barely commenced, and a moment afterwards lit another. By the light of the match his fingers could have been seen to shake nervously. At last a cab stopped, a porter opened the door, and Roderick's heart gave a leap of relief and joy as he saw the familiar girlish figure emerge. He sprang to her side.

“Oh, thank God you have come, dear, thank God!” he whispered.

“I keep my word,” said Ella, remotely. Roderick gave some directions to the porters, and turned to her.

“I will show you straight into our carriage. I have reserved one for ourselves.”

He led the way through the booking offices to the great glass-covered station, with its blue glare of electric light and babel of sounds.

“My heroic Ella,” he murmured. She raised her eyes somewhat appealingly. Then he saw she had been crying; her lashes were still wet.

“Those tears are the last you shall ever shed,” he whispered, bending down to her ear. In reply she held out the crumpled ball of paper which she had kept in her hand. He stood by the platform gate and read, and looking at the telegram, reflected. The instinct of the self-indulgent man prompted a reply. A dry-eyed woman, be she never so beloved, was a pleasanter travelling companion than a tearful one. He handed her back the telegram with a smile.

“It's the dear elderly lady's exaggeration. Mr. Lanyon is kept to his room by a slight cold. That is all. I saw Sylvester this afternoon, and he had only left Ayresford this morning. Make yourself quite easy, dearest.”

She followed him through the gate, along the platform where the Harwich train stood waiting.

“You take a great weight off my mind,” she said earnestly. “I have felt it was wicked and selfish of me to leave him.”

“My poor child,” said Roderick, tenderly.

The guard hurried up and unlocked the door of the reserved carriage. The porter, who had followed them, stowed Ella's hand-baggage and wraps in the rack. Ella entered and took her seat, while Roderick hastened away to see to the registration of her heavy luggage. Tears of a great relief filled her eyes. However much she hated Sylvester, she knew that he would not have spoken lightly to any one of his father's illness; nor would he have left his father's bedside if anything serious were the matter with the old man. Roderick's confident report reassured her. She felt almost happy. If only her head were not aching, and a strange heaviness were lifted off her heart!

Presently Roderick returned, took the seat opposite, and closed the door. His face had lost the haggardness that had troubled her during the past week and wore an aspect of conquering pride. He had looked thus in the few golden moments when she had cared for him most. His bright air of confidence gave her strength. Her pulses quickened a little. He was worthy of her blind trust. The instinct of the woman to satisfy herself that the plank on which she walks is the solid earth brought swift apotheosis of the man. She was humble, little, of no account; he was strong and great, with the artist's noble grip upon life. And he loved her passionately. She leaned forward, touched his arm, and with the first smile for many hours she asked him whether he was content. He vowed his utter happiness.

“You will never have cause to regret this step to the day of your death,” he said fervently.

At that moment the face of a man appeared at the window, and Roderick threw himself back with a stifled exclamation.

“Sylvester!” cried Ella, involuntarily.

Sylvester looked from one to the other in silence.

“I did not expect to see you here, Miss Defries,” he said at last.

Ella drew herself up haughtily. “I am the sole mistress of my actions,” she said. “What I choose to do is not your concern, Dr. Lanyon.” For the moment indignation checked natural wonder at his presence. Sylvester regarded her sternly. His dark face seemed chiselled out of wood.

“Unfortunately, it is of vital concern to me,” he replied. “But I apologise a thousand times for interrupting you.” He turned to Roderick, over whose face a pallor was spreading. “A friend of mine would like to speak to you for a few moments.”

“I am sorry I am not at his disposal,” returned Roderick, with a forced laugh.

“You would hardly care to discuss the matter with him here,” said Sylvester.

Roderick consulted his watch. The spark of hope died out. There were still ten minutes before the train would start.

“Remember our compact,” said he. “You guaranteed I should be annoyed no further. This is a breach of faith.”

Ella leaned before the window, obscuring Roderick from the other's view.

“How dare you intrude in this unwarrantable manner?”

“Miss Defries,” said Sylvester, coldly, “please do not interfere in the very grave affairs of men.”

She sank back in her corner, cut to the quick by the rebuke, and quivering with baffled indignation. Sylvester again addressed Roderick.

“Your presence here with Miss Defries is a breach of faith, and renders our compact void. Once more, for Miss Defries's sake, I beg that you will come on to the platform and discuss the matter with my friend.”

He opened the door. Roderick got out of the carriage and went a few paces along the platform with Sylvester. A decently dressed man took off his hat as they approached him.

“This is a police officer,” said Sylvester, quietly. “He has a warrant for your arrest. You were wrong in thinking me such a fool as to trust you. My object in coming here was to make certain that you had left by this train. If you had not, the police would have been on your track immediately. If you had been leaving alone, I should have told the officer you were not here, and you would have gone scot free, and the matter would have been hushed up. As it is, you have played me false, prevailed by some devilish lie upon Miss Defries to elope with you; and, by God! I'll have no pity on you. Mr. Wigram, this is the gentleman I was speaking of.”

The police officer, on being summoned, drew near, and again touching his hat stated his errand with due formality and explained that he had no wish to create any unpleasantness in a public place, and that if Mr. Usher would walk quietly by his side to the cab rank, they could drive away unnoticed. A little knot of people saying farewell to friends by an open carriage door, and one or two hurrying passengers, eyed Roderick's ghastly face with some curiosity. The guard of the train bustled up.

“Now, sir, perhaps you had better take your seat.”

“I am prevented, at the last moment, from travelling with you,” said Roderick, with bitter cynicism.

The guard saluted and passed on. Roderick's eyes followed him and rested on Ella looking anxiously from the carriage window. He turned away with a sob.

“Come on, if I must go,” he said hoarsely; “you will pay for this outrageous blunder, Dr. Lanyon.”

He walked away defiantly with the police officer, and Sylvester went up to Ella. The guard was just fitting the key in the door to lock it. Sylvester laid a detaining touch upon his arm.

“The lady is getting out.”

The door was thrown open. Sylvester took Ella's travelling-bag from the rack.

“Your companion is not going abroad this evening,” said he, pausing with the bag on the seat. “And it will be scarcely worth your while to go to Amsterdam alone.”

The girl's white, questioning face made him relent for a moment.

“Forgive me,” he said more kindly. “But what has happened was inevitable. I have only saved you from the hands of a scoundrel.”

“How dare you call him that?” she whispered with trembling lips.

He did not reply, but handed the bag and wraps to a porter whom he summoned, and descending from the carriage stood in readiness to assist Ella to the platform. She obeyed his sign involuntarily, but as soon as she stood opposite him, she turned upon him with flashing anger.

“Now tell me at once what all this means,” she said in a low, concentrated tone. “I am not a child to have things hidden from me. I have lived too many hours to-day in darkness. What does it mean? Why are you here, coming between me and the man I am to marry? Where has Roderick gone? Tell me. I must know.”

“I should like to spare you the knowledge,—at all events, for the present.”

He made a motion of his hand to indicate the public place. His glance fell upon the porter standing expectant with the bag. Giving the man a shilling, he bade him take the things to a cab and await him there. Then he turned to Ella.

“Perhaps we might find a more suitable place.” he added. But Ella stamped her foot impatiently.

“No. Here, at once! What is this mystery? Where has Roderick gone?”

The guard's whistle blew, the engine shrieked, there was a flutter back of loungers from the carriage doors, and the train steamed out of the station, carrying neither Roderick nor his fortunes, carrying only, with the grotesque irony that accompanies most of the tragic issues of life, the registered luggage of Ella and himself.

Sylvester waited until the commotion had subsided. Then he spoke in his cold, unemotional way,—

“He has been arrested by the police for forgery, at my instance.”

The girl's eye closed for a few tremulous seconds, and reeling she put her hand to her heart; but she waved Sylvester away when he came forward to prevent her from falling.

“I am not going to faint—I said so before today—it is a hideous lie—he is shielding some one else—he told me it was another's secret. It is some horrible revenge of yours—you always hated him. An honorable gentleman to do such a thing—it is ridiculous, inconceivable! It is you that have trapped him.”

The lowered tones in which the girl spoke contrasted strangely with the shrieking hubbub of the glaring station. Through her veil he could see her features distorted with anger. He waited until she had ended her invective.

“He forged my father's name to a cheque for three thousand pounds,” he said with cutting distinctness. “The shock of discovery yesterday has brought my father to the point of death.”

Ella swung her head contemptuously.

“You told Roderick yourself to-day that Uncle Matthew had only a slight cold.”

“The lying devil!” cried Sylvester, with one of his rare blazes of anger. “Read that.”

He drew a telegram from his pocket, and handed it to her.

She returned it without a word, and stood with both hands pressed closely to her temples, in an awful convulsion of soul. Roderick's lie blazed before her eyes in letters of fire. It was blazoned upon the walls of the station. It reddened the pale glare of the electric light. It was a magnesium flame illuminating the innermost darkness of the man's heart. Roderick's mystery was a mystery no longer.

“Let us go,” she said at last faintly.

They walked silently, side by side, to the end of the platform. There was the same eternal scurrying of eager feet. A train had just arrived at another platform, and the crowd of passengers were streaming through the gate on to the open space. Nothing in the outer world had changed during the past hour. But Ella was filled with a vague wonder that universal chaos did not prevail around her. She followed Sylvester in a state of dream, to be aroused to practical effort by his voice.

“This is your cab. Where would you care to be driven to?”

She collected her faculties. Pride rose in arms against betrayal of weakness.

“I suppose there is no train to Ayresford to-night?” she asked steadily.

“Yes. The ten o'clock. A fast train. I am going down by it.”

“You would have no objection to my accompanying you?”

“That my father needs you is enough for me to entreat you to come.”

“Very well. I shall drive to Waterloo and wait there until the train starts.”

“And I in the mean time must do some necessary business.”

He gave the direction to the driver and the cab drove off. He hailed another and was carried rapidly westward.

When the time came for taking her seat at Waterloo in the Ayresford train, she mechanically followed a porter to an empty first-class carriage and sat down in a further corner, broken with trouble. She was only awakened to a sense of surroundings by the door being thrown violently open as soon as the train began to move, and a man whom she recognised as Sylvester leaping into the compartment. He sat for a moment breathless, then moved up the seat.

“I did not mean to intrude on you,” he said, when he had recovered; “but I nearly missed the train, and this was the first carriage to hand.”

She looked out of the window into the whirling darkness.

“It does not matter,” she murmured.

“Nothing much matters now.”

Sylvester lay back in his corner with an air of utter fatigue, and closed his eyes. They travelled thus in silence for a long time. To Ella the world seemed to have come to a disgraceful end. The dying state of the old man to whom she was hurrying was in keeping with the general finality of things. She suffered a horrible humiliation too deep for coherent thought. Gradually, however, the sight of Sylvester opposite, cold and stern, acted upon her like an irritant. At one moment she was seized with an hysterical impulse to scream. She mastered it, fighting with scornful violence. Resentment began to burn within her, first dull, then increasing in intensity to fierceness. The flame fed a smouldering horror scarcely as yet realised. Roderick was in a police cell that night. He would be tried on a disgraceful charge. The result would be imprisonment. Clearer and clearer grew the significance of the term. As a woman in touch with the thinking world, she had interested herself in contemporary social problems. Our prison system had been among those in which she had played the pretty part of amateur reformer. As the Honorary Secretary of a society which had rapidly burned itself out with excessive zeal, she had learned many of the hateful facts. For a fortnight the fate of the tenderly nurtured gentleman condemned to the unutterable torture of imprisonment had been a nightmare. Her aunt had rediscovered a teacher of music, once a well-known singer, now voiceless through illness, Yvonne Latour, who had married a man called Joyce, a cultivated gentleman who deservedly had passed through the wintry sorrows of the gaol, and Yvonne had told her what they meant. Her own troubles, the Walden Art Colony, her relations with Roderick, had put the subject out of her mind; but now the recollection of these things grew more vivid every moment. Her own benumbing sense of humiliation was lost in the new shudder. Liar she knew Roderick to be; that he was a forger, reason forbade her to doubt. Yet by her yielding to his kisses that day, she had given him, as it were, some share of her flesh, and her own flesh quivered at the contaminating touch of the gaol.

The train thundered on. The windows of the carriage were opaque with steam. Opposite sat Sylvester like a sphinx, his cap drawn over his eyes, so that she could not see whether they were open or shut. Suddenly the brake grated and the wheels dragged beneath the carriage, and the train stopped with a jerk at a little, vaguely lighted station. Sylvester looked up mechanically and found the girl's eyes, deep and dark behind her veil, fixed upon him. She felt impelled to speak, yet altered her appeal at the instant the prearranged words were about to leave her lips. Instinctively she sought to wound him.

“If Uncle Matthew is dying, how could you leave his side? I thought you at least loved him.”

He stared at her for a moment without replying. It seemed incredible that any one should not perceive his torture of anxiety. He forgot the iron will whereby he had kept it hidden. To sit idly hour after hour, as he had done that day, poignantly conscious of every train that might have taken him to that one spot on the earth whither every fibre of his being was drawn, to disregard the piteous appeals made to him from time to time, to come and comfort the dying man whom he loved so passionately, had been an effort of almost superhuman strength. The inability of his questioner to realise his suffering bewildered him. At that instant of time it was his whole existence.

“A man's duty is above love or death,” he said coldly, after a pause. “I can't discuss it with you, for you would not understand. At least, I have served him in delivering you.”

She gripped the arms of the seat and for a while said nothing. Then as the train moved on, she spoke somewhat huskily, forcing herself to her point.

“Are you going to carry out your intentions—as regards—him?”

“Certainly.”

“Has he not been punished enough already?”

“I don't understand you,” said Sylvester. “He has broken the law. He has murdered my father. What punishment has he had yet? He shall have his deserts,—whatever term of penal servitude the judge thinks fit to give him.”

“For God's sake have mercy, Sylvester!” cried the girl, leaning forward in her seat, so that her voice should reach him above the rhythmic clatter and the creaking of the train. “If that happened to him, it would kill me. The awful horror of it,—have you thought?”

“I have been trained for years to think deeply before acting, even in trivial matters,” he replied.

“Heaven knows what awful temptation he may have had,” said Ella.

“A man who cannot resist temptation is better out of the world.”

Ella's eyes flashed. The encounter braced her nerves. “Have you always resisted temptation?” she cried in sharp scorn.

“I have lived my life a stainless and an upright man,” he replied sternly.

“So did Christ; but he had pity.”

“I am not Christ. I am mortal, and have my limitations. Listen. This man admitted his forgery. Out of regard for you, I was weak enough to allow him a chance of escape, on certain definite conditions. These he violated, like the scoundrel he is. To let him loose now on society would be a crime on my part.”

“To pardon the man who has wronged you would be the higher action,” said Ella.

“It would be mere weakness,” replied Sylvester.

Ella threw out her hands in a gesture of despair, and flung herself back against the cushions. Then suddenly she bent forward again, and laid a hand upon his knee.

“For my sake, Sylvester! To save me from the shame and disgrace of it. To save me from the endless horror of what he will be suffering. My God! Do you think that he was nothing to me? That a man can be snatched from a woman's life to degradation without her feeling it? Do you think I am bloodless marble like you? Oh, I could not live with the thought of it.... It is not that I love him still. I hope never to see his face again. God knows whether I ever really loved him. But if this happens I could not live. I could not live, I tell you! You cannot do it. You shall not do it. You owe me a reparation—yes, you,” she continued passionately. “You said just now you had lived a stainless and upright life. It is a lie. It is not an upright thing to win a girl's love and then cast it aside.”

“Stop, Ella,” interrupted Sylvester; “you are talking of things you do not understand.”

“I not understand? Does the man who is lashed not understand the pain? You made me love you two years ago. I gave you my heart, a young girl's heart, fresh and whole. You kissed me. You said in looks and all but spoken words that you were going to ask me to be your wife. For a whole day I lived like a tremulous fool waiting for you. You never came. You never spoke again. I put away my woman's pride and offered myself—that evening. You rejected me with cold cynicism. You wronged me cruelly. You owe me reparation. Give it to me now,—this man's freedom. I claim it as a right from you.”

She was reckless in her self-revelation. Words came now too readily. She continued. What she said, she did not remember afterwards. Only that she had sunk on her knees before him, pleading passionately for Roderick, and that he had remained unmoved.

But as she knelt there, clutching his clothes, she looked exceedingly beautiful. With an impatient gesture she had thrust up her veil, and the sight of her young, noble face lit with terrible earnestness was a shock of strange temptation to the man. She pleaded for Roderick. A spasm of disgust, similar to that which had shaken him a month or two back when he had seen her yield to Roderick's caress, passed through him and held him speechless.

Another stoppage of the train broke the situation. Ella shrank back into the corner of her seat. Sylvester rose and crossing to the further window opened it, and looked out upon the platform. As soon as they moved on, he drew up the glass again and turned to her, his heart hardened tenfold.

“I did all that was possible,” he said. “I thought I cared for you. I found to my regret you were utterly indifferent to me. To have asked you to marry me would have been impossible.”

“Oh, for Heaven's sake say no more!” cried the girl, shrinking.

“Perhaps it is best,” replied Sylvester. “My determination is absolute.”

And so they sat silent, facing each other, as the train carried them onwards through the darkness.