Weldon's funeral was held on the afternoon of the third day following his death. His body was interred in the vault of his family at their seat at Sartley, in Norfolk. I was not invited to attend, but I felt I had to go. Miss Ottley was there with her father and Dr. Belleville. She was clad in deep mourning, and her face was thickly veiled. One of Weldon's sisters sobbed throughout the ceremony, yet I do not think she felt her brother's loss half as deeply as I did. I heard her whisper to her neighbour once—between sobs—(I knelt immediately behind her)—"Have you ever seen such callousness—not a tear, not a sigh?" She was referring to Miss Ottley. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the cliffs beside the sea. I did not wish to return by the same train as the Ottleys, but destiny ruled otherwise, although I waited for the last. It seemed that Sir Robert had overtaxed his strength and had been obliged to rest. I had hardly taken my seat when he was helped into the same compartment by Belleville and the porter. They made him comfortable with cushions, without observing me; but Miss Ottley started as she entered, and raised her veil. "You!" she muttered, then paused as if in doubt, eyeing Belleville. A second later she let fall her veil again and sat beside me. Without asking anyone's permission, Belleville turned down the light, leaving the compartment in comparative obscurity. The porter muttered thanks for the tip and, departing, locked the door.

Plainly my presence had passed unnoticed. But an exclamation from Belleville soon showed he had discovered me. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "this carriage has been specially reserved." Then he recognised me. "Oh!" he cried. "You—but——"

But the train had begun to move. I sank back in my corner. Belleville took the corner opposite. In a few minutes Sir Robert complained of the light, in the manner of a sick man. Belleville sprang up and put it out altogether. The darkness now was absolute.

"If you will take this side, I can make you comfortable; there is a cushion to spare," said Belleville's voice. He was not addressing me.

"I prefer to remain where I am, thank you," said Miss Ottley, in a frigid tone.

Belleville sat down silently. Now and then I caught the glimmer of his eyes from the reflection of passing lights, or the glow of the engine smoke and steam, wind-blown beside the train. He was staring into the corner which I occupied. I felt his hatred wrap and heat me like a coat composed of nettles. And the man had occasion, for ere long Miss Ottley's hand stole to mine, and she sighed when mine enclosed and pressed it close. Belleville could not have known, yet he must have felt we were in sympathy opposed to him—just as I felt his hostile influence. It was a silent ride, but not uninteresting. Twice Belleville unexpectedly struck a match and flashed it in our faces. But my rug covered the occupation of our hands. Once instinct warned me that he was bending forward, peering and prying. I raised my foot and brushed it in his beard. He fell back, coughing, to prevent himself from cursing. It was in that moment probably that he resolved upon my death, for I was unable to restrain a low, grim laugh. Sir Robert slept always, even when we paused at stations on the road. At those times Belleville and I exchanged pretty courtesies. He would offer me his flask, or I would offer him a cigarette. We both refused these charming civilities, but our manner was so densely sugar-coated that there might have been detected by a skilled psychometrist a scent of honey in the air. And our eyes beamed upon each other with the sweetest friendliness. Needless to say, whenever the engine whistled or the train slowed down Miss Ottley's hand left mine. She only spoke to me once, and that was on the London platform, while Belleville was assisting her father from the car.

"Do not go out ever between three and five!" she muttered behind her veil, without looking at me. "I shall come as soon as I can. Do not call on me! Do not reply! Just say good-bye!"

"Well—if you'll allow me, I'll say good-bye, Miss Ottley," I announced in ordinary tones. "You might be good enough to let me know your opinion of my book at your leisure, for I value your opinion. You will have an advance copy in a week or two."

"Most certainly, Dr. Pinsent. It is kind of you to remember your promise. Good-bye!"

I lifted my hat and left her; nodding to Belleville as I passed. He looked surprised, also distrustful, but he said something polite. Sir Robert saw me, but chose to ignore my existence.

I walked home to Bruton Street and found Hubbard ensconced before the fire. The night was chilly enough to warrant one, despite the season. He was staring gloomily into the heart of the glowing coals.

I helped myself to a glass of whisky and took an armchair beside him.

"I can't stand this. I'll go abroad," he announced at the end of a good half hour.

"What's the matter, Hubbard?"

"Oh! I've been there again. I couldn't keep away. She was alone, for a wonder."

"You refer to your wife, I suppose. Well?"

He allowed me to finish my cigar before replying, then he said: "I have no business to tell you, but I shall. She is in love, and I believe with you."

"Nonsense."

"I wish it were," he answered dreamily, "but it is not. She has practically admitted it."

"That—she cares for me?" I cried.

"No—but for someone. And I am not so great a fool that I cannot read between the lines, although she thinks so. Her thoughts dwell constantly on you."

"Impossible!"

He turned and gazed at me. "It's so, old man, upon my honour."

"You are mistaken, Dixon."

"I know you are as true as steel," he muttered. "That is why I do not even feel a wish to thwart the fates. I am nothing but an interloper, a marplot. I ought to efface myself. When I am strong enough I shall. But I wish you'd be frank with me—Hugh, entirely frank. You think you despise her now, but you are sure you have no other feeling deep at heart? Think well before you answer, Hugh!"

"Why?"

"Because if I were sure that you cared, too, I would find my happiness in helping. You are worthy of her—and she—as God hears me, is worthy of the best man living."

"Dixon! Dixon!"

"Oh! I know this must sound oddly from my lips. But though I've been a fool, I'm wiser now. I hold a purer, finer faith; a human faith. And it is now my deep belief that the greatest crime of all is the prevention of the fullest union of predestined mates—and all that sin entails—the birth of children generated by the fires of lust and hate upon the copperplate of physical and psychical indifference; the production of a race prenatally ordained to be degenerates; the determination of unhappy souls galled into madness by their chains,—their ultimate destruction."

He got suddenly afoot and raised his hands on high. "I tell you, Hugh!" he cried, with eyes afire, "there is no surer way to damnation, no surer path. We are born into this world for one strong purpose which is told us by our hearts if we will hear them. And this concerns ourselves not half so much as our potentialities of helping by their proper use the unborn spirits placed by Providence at our control and mercy. It is then for us to choose if we will be servants of the good, to assist in their perfection, or the servants of the evil to promote their desolation and to advance the stages of their ruin. No human being has the right to bring any but a love child into the world. That which is not a love child is a child of hate. There is no course between. And because the father of a child of hate is a criminal for whom there is no punishment conceivable, to a finite mind, acute enough on earth his expiation of his crime will but begin at death. You laugh at me."

"On the contrary," I answered gravely, "I accord with you."

"Then you admit my duty. I should stand aside?"

"Ay—but first be sure, my friend! You love your wife; she may love you."

"I am sure that she does not. But you? It is time, Hugh, that you answered me."

I stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "I love with all my strength another woman," I said slowly. "And just as sure I am that I love her am I that she loves me. Are you answered?"

He stared at me, and in the moment that my eyes held his, his face grew dull and grey. "My poor Helen," he muttered, "I had hoped to help her to her happiness."

"At—any cost?" I demanded.

"Yes, yes," he said.

"Death?"

"I would have welcomed it," he groaned, and turning, he went slowly from the room. He walked like an old, old man. I had never admired him so little, nor liked and pitied him so much. Straightway I wrote a note to Lady Helen and, going out, posted it myself. It contained only these three words: "It is time." I could trust a woman of her proven cleverness to understand.