Probably Maddison alone knew that Mortimer was not the empty-hearted cynic that he wished the world to believe him to be. Mortimer’s terrible handicap was that his character was for the most part a compound of tender-heartedness and shyness. A jeer, a jest at his expense, a snub, a misunderstanding, a rebuff of proffered sympathy cut him to the quick, and he had gradually schooled himself into presenting to his friends, even to those with whom he was intimate, an exterior of callous carelessness, not realizing that while by so doing he would save himself from much pain, he would inevitably also deprive himself of some of the highest joys a man can experience. A true-hearted woman’s love would have rescued him from his error, but the woman he had loved had sold herself to a Jew for diamonds and a house in Park Lane. Living so self-centered as he did, or rather so self-contained, Mortimer’s friends were few, while his acquaintances were innumerable. The one he knew best was George Maddison, to whom he was attached, and attached not so much because he found in him any true comradeship, but because he felt for him a certain pity. He knew how much there was of splendor in Maddison’s nature and he knew equally well how much there was of weakness. He looked upon him as a fair-weather sailor, a man who delighted to rove over sunlit, peaceful seas, who loved to listen to the voices of the sirens and who, if caught by Circe’s enchantments, might sink down among the beasts. Indeed, he counted him very much as a brilliant, passionate, wayward child. So far Maddison had met with no storms, the wind had always been fair, the sun unclouded, the sirens more attracted by him than he by them, but this attachment, this passion for Marian, frightened Mortimer. An absorbing love for a good woman might have been Maddison’s salvation, but Marian was utterly bad in his estimation, and he could not perceive ahead anything save misery. That Marian would not rest content with Maddison’s love and protection he was assured; already she might be playing false to him; when Maddison discovered—as discover one day he must—that he had adored and sacrificed himself to a false goddess, what would be the outcome? If Maddison had been strong, the stinging lesson might prove a purifying trial; but—Maddison being weak in all save his art and his passion, what could possibly be the upshot but tragedy? The greater the hold she gained upon him the greater the disaster. It delighted Mortimer that Maddison had left town; at any rate he would not constantly be under Marian’s spell; he might find that Marian was not, as he thought, entirely necessary to his happiness; absence might enable him to see in her faults to which the unbroken charm of her presence blinded him; he might gradually shake himself free, gradually waken from dreams of heaven to the realities of common sense. This was only a hope, however, and Mortimer felt impelled to do anything that in him lay to enable Maddison to regain his freedom. Things were bad, and the lapse of time might, of course, make them worse instead of better. Cruel as would be the cure, the best and surest way to liberate Maddison would be to open his eyes to Marian’s real character. For her Mortimer had no sympathy or pity; she was merely one more of those mortal pests born to kill men, body, heart and soul. Maddison was worth saving from her poisonous influence. It was not as a prude that Mortimer judged the matter. He enjoyed to the full the pleasures of the world and of the flesh, but Marian was a devouring devil. “Religion must have been invented by women,” he once said, “for the devil is always represented as a man.”

The single point was this: Maddison firmly believed that Marian loved him; that belief must be shattered; he must be shown, with proof and above doubt, that Marian loved herself only and cared for Maddison simply because he had enabled her to shake herself free from her husband, and had provided her with money and pleasure. Marian so far had been very guarded in her conduct, but Mortimer judged that there were two temptations, to one of which she would succumb, if not to both: a love of power, and a quickly growing, and in the end probably overwhelming, desire for gross pleasures. She was now alone; probably eagerly searching for temptation. The matter was simple; she must be watched.

So the day of Maddison’s leaving for Brighton, Mortimer went to see his solicitor, who could probably, he thought, tell him to whom it would be best to apply for the work he wished done.

“You want some one watched, carefully and discreetly. Man or woman?” asked the placid, well-groomed man of law, who looked more of a prosperous city merchant than an astute, busy lawyer.

“Does that make any difference?” asked Mortimer.

“A great deal. Set a thief to catch a thief—a man to catch a man—a woman to catch a woman.”

“Well, it’s a woman.”

“H’m,” said the lawyer, meditatively looking at his client. “What kind of woman? You mustn’t mind my asking all these questions. I can’t help you if I don’t know something of the circumstances.”

“The fact is,” said Mortimer, “I’m interfering in a business that has nothing to do with me. A friend of mine is entangled with a woman whom he believes to be sincerely fond of him. I believe her to be a thoroughly reckless, bad woman. I want to know.”

“I see. I think Davis will be the best man for you to go to. Mention my name. Here’s his address.”

“But you said a woman?”

“Yes—Davis will get you one. I should not tell Davis anything more than that you want this woman watched and to learn exactly what she does, where she goes, whom she meets, and so on.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

Mortimer was surprised at the address: Henry William Davis—Pall Mall East; still more surprised when he was asked to wait in a cozily furnished sitting room, which had every appearance of being occupied by an ordinary man about town; still more surprised by the entrance of a slim man of middle height, quietly but fashionably dressed, fair-haired and blue-eyed.

“You asked to see me? I’m Mr. Davis. The servant gave me your name as Mortimer. You discreetly did not trust me with your card.”

“My name is Mortimer. Mr. John Battersea—my solicitor—advised me to obtain your—help—but—” Mortimer looked doubtfully at Davis, and then round the room, with its elaborate grate and overmantel, the white wood dado, the monochrome olive-green walls, the heavy green plush curtains, the admirable etchings and engravings, the few pieces of choice silver and china.

“Not exactly the kind of man or room you expected to see, Mr. Mortimer? Well, please sit down; you may be sure Battersea would not have sent you to the wrong place. Won’t you have a cigarette? There are matches beside you. Now—to business. You needn’t tell me who you are, I know you well by sight and reputation. Well?”

He spoke in a slow, soft voice, which was not in any way weak, but on the contrary impressed the hearer with the conviction that he was a man of quiet, firm determination.

“My business is very simple, and I was told you could get it carried out for me. I want a woman watched; I want to know what she does, where she goes and with whom—in fact all you can find out about her.”

“That’s simple enough. What kind of woman? Respectable, or apparently so, or disreputable?”

“Disreputable, I believe. Her name’s Marian Squire; she’s living apart from her husband; there’s her address.”

“Very well. I’ll have her watched and report to you daily or weekly, as you prefer. That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“And as I said, very simple. Do you merely wish for information? Or for evidence as well? I mean, will the case be likely to appear in court?”

“No. I merely want trustworthy information for my own use,” Mortimer answered.

“Very well. I can promise to obtain it for you. You want me to tell you all I can find out about this woman. That’s the long and short of it. Nothing more? Then—good morning.”

For a few minutes after Mortimer had gone, Mr. Davis stood before the fire, quietly smoking his cigarette. Then he rang the bell and told the sedate manservant to ring for a special messenger. He sat down at a small writing table standing by the window and scribbled a note which he folded with deliberation and then put into a thick envelope which he carefully sealed and addressed to Mrs. Ethel Harding.

Maddison had persuaded Marian to breakfast with him at the studio on the morning of his departure. They had not heard or seen anything more of her husband, and Maddison had more than once hinted his doubts as to there being any need for the separation, suggesting that she should go with him to Rottingdean. The mere thought of this had irritated Marian beyond endurance, though she concealed her feeling from him, only urging that no real change had taken place in the circumstances which had caused them to decide upon their plan, and she felt grateful to Mortimer when she heard that his advice and opinion accorded with hers.

The delight with which she saw Maddison’s luggage-laden cab turn the corner of the street soon gave way, as she walked homeward, to a sense of inability as to how she could best make use of her new liberty. Pleasure at any cost was her first aim and requirement. In addition to Mortimer she had casually met a few of Maddison’s more Bohemian friends, but she neither desired nor dared approach them. Mortimer was wealthy, but it would be too risky, she counted, to ask him for anything, though anything he cared to offer she was prepared to accept. Then there was “Nosey” Geraldstein, who, Ethel Harding told her, was most anxious to know her, but she did not like him, and she had not yet plumbed that depth of callousness which makes a woman readily render herself to any man who will purchase her material pleasures; she could not yet content herself with the mere prose of lust; she still asked for some remnant of poetry, however ragged. There remained Ethel Harding.

Passing by her own door, she went on up to her friend’s, where her knock was answered by the maid, who said that Mrs. Harding was not yet up. But the door of the bedroom standing ajar, Marian’s inquiry had been heard, and Mrs. Harding called out:

“Come along in, Marian. I’m lazy and having breakfast in bed. Come in.”

Marian went into the stuffy room, which was dimly lighted, the curtain being only half drawn from the window.

“Find a chair, my dear; throw those things on to the floor. My head’s aching like the devil. I had a wild night of it. Have something? I tried a cup of tea, but it tasted like sand and water, so I’m indulging in a B. and S. Have one?”

“No, thanks, I couldn’t!” Marian answered, laughing apologetically.

“Couldn’t? Well, I used to say that once upon a time,” Mrs. Harding replied; then stretching out her shapely, strong arms and yawning desperately: “That’s the worst of taking a bit too much; one feels dead beat, but can’t sleep a twopenny wink; and you dream and toss about, and your mouth and tongue get so dry that they feel as if they were cracking all over. But the first drop in the morning pulls one together a bit. It makes a lot of difference what’s the lotion. Never get squiffy on phiz, my dear, it’s poison. Stick to brandy, it doesn’t hang about so much. So Master George is off to the country and you’ve got a holiday! What are you going to do with it?”

“That’s just what I don’t know. I’m running down to Brighton in a few days, but I don’t want to go to sleep till then. I came up to see if you could suggest anything. Are you free to-night? Couldn’t we go somewhere together?”

“Lots of places if you have any coppers. I’m cleaned out. My old man’s away, I’ve spent all he left me, so I’ll hunt for rhino while you hunt for fun; sometimes you can manage to haul in both, but it’s generally the stupid beasts who have the cash. Never mind, we’ll trust to luck, and if none turns up you shall liquidate the bill. Now I’m going to turn you out; just pull the curtains to, like a dear, and I’ll indulge in some more beauty sleep. I’ll look you up about tea-time, and we can talk over the plan of campaign. Ta-ta!”