condition.'
'Of course I am.

'When did you see him last?'

'See him?' Shergold's eyes wandered vaguely. 'Oh, to talk with him, about a
month ago.'

'Did you part friendly?'

'On excellent terms. And last night I went to ask after him. Unfortunately
he didn't know any one, but the nurse said he had been mentioning my name,
and in a kind way.'

'Capital! Hadn't you better walk in that direction this afternoon?'

'Yes, perhaps I had, and yet, you know, I hate to have it supposed that I
am hovering about him.'

'All the same, go.'

Shergold pointed to a chair. 'Sit down a bit. I have been having a talk
with Dr. Salmon. He discourages me a good deal. You know it's far from
certain that I shall go on with medicine.'

'Far from certain!' the other assented, smiling. 'By the bye, I hear that
you have been in the world of late. You were at Lady Teasdale's not long
ago.'

'Well--yes--why not?'

Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident,--Shergold seemed
unable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and kept
glancing nervously towards the door.

'I was delighted to hear it,' said his friend. 'That's a symptom of health.
Go everywhere; see everybody--that's worth seeing. They got you to talk, I
believe?'

'Who has been telling you? I'm afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I had
shivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it. But some one
brought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of which
I wanted to relieve my mind. And, after all, there's a pleasure in talking
to intelligent people. Henry Wilt was there with his daughters. Clever
girls, by Jove! And Mrs. Peter Rayne--do you know her?'

'Know of her, that's all.'

'A splendid woman--brains, brains! Upon my soul, I know no such delight as
listening to a really intellectual woman, when she's also beautiful. I
shake with delight--and what women one does meet, nowadays! Of course the
world never saw their like. I have my idea of Aspasia--but there are lots
of grander women in London to-day. One ought to live among the rich. What a
wretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads,
however laudable your motive! Since I got back among the better people my
life has been trebled--oh, centupled--in value!'

'My boy,' remarked Munden quietly, 'didn't I say something to this effect
on a certain day nine years ago?'

'Don't talk of it,' the other replied, waving his hand in agitation. 'We'll
never look back at that.'

'Your room is stuffy,' said Munden, rising. 'Let us go and have lunch
somewhere.'

'Yes, we will! Just a moment to wash my hands--I've been in the
dissecting-room.'

The friends went downstairs. At the foot they passed the landlady's
daughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to pass
into the street, her voice made itself heard behind him.

'Shall you want tea, Mr. Shergold?'

Munden turned sharply and looked at the girl. Shergold did not look at her,
but he delayed for a moment and appeared to balance the question. Then, in
a friendly voice, he said--

'No, thank you. I may not be back till late in the evening.' And he went on
hurriedly.

'Cheeky little beggar that,' Munden observed, with a glance at his friend.

'Oh, not a bad girl in her way. They've made me very comfortable. All the
same, I shan't grieve when the day of departure comes.'

It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold. At two-and-twenty he
found himself launched upon the world, with a university education
incomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket. A little management, a
little less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to go
forward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry was
a Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility. He
got a place in an office, and he began to write poetry--some of which was
published and duly left unpaid for. A year later there came one fateful day
when he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to be
married. His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor--a tall,
pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at a
tobacconist's shop, where she served. He was going to marry her on
principle--principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youth
who has lived demurely, more among books than men. Harvey Munden flew into
a rage, and called upon the gods in protest. But Shergold was not to be
shaken. The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him during
conversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and he
would not betray it. She had excellent dispositions; he would educate her.
The friends quarrelled about it, and Shergold led home his bride.

With the results which any sane person could have foretold. The marriage
was a hideous disaster; in three years it brought Shergold to an attempted
suicide, for which he had to appear at the police-court. His relative, the
distinguished doctor, who had hitherto done nothing for him, now came
forward with counsel and assistance. Happily the only child of the union
had died at a few weeks old, and the wife, though making noisy proclamation
of rights, was so weary of her husband that she consented to a separation.

But in less than a year the two were living together again; Mrs. Shergold
had been led by her relatives to believe that some day the poor fellow
would have his uncle's money, and her wiles ultimately overcame Shergold's
resistance. He, now studying law at the doctor's expense, found himself
once more abandoned, and reduced to get his living as a solicitor's clerk.
His uncle had bidden him good-bye on a postcard, whereon was illegibly
scribbled something about 'damned fools.'

He bore the burden for three more years, then his wife died. One night,
after screaming herself speechless in fury at Shergold's refusal to go with
her to a music-hall, she had a fit on the stairs, and in falling received
fatal injuries.

The man was free, but terribly shattered. Only after a long sojourn abroad,
at his kinsman's expense, did he begin to recover health. He came back and
entered himself as a student at Guy's, greatly to Dr. Shergold's
satisfaction. His fees were paid and a small sum was allowed him to live
upon--a very small sum. By degrees some old acquaintances began to see him,
but it was only quite of late that he had accepted invitations from people
of social standing, whom he met at the doctor's house. The hints of his
story that got about made him an interesting figure, especially to women,
and his remarkable gifts were recognised as soon as circumstances began to
give him fair play. All modern things were of interest to him, and his
knowledge, acquired with astonishing facility, formed the fund of talk
which had singular charm alike for those who did and those who did not
understand it. Undeniably shy, he yet, when warmed to a subject, spoke with
nerve and confidence. In days of jabber, more or less impolite, this
appearance of an articulate mortal, with soft manners and totally
unaffected, could not but excite curiosity. Lady Teasdale, eager for the
uncommon, chanced to observe him one evening as he conversed with his
neighbour at the dinner-table; later, in the drawing-room, she encouraged
him with flattery of rapt attention to a display of his powers; she
resolved to make him a feature of her evenings. Fortunately, his kindred
with Dr. Shergold made a respectable introduction, and Lady Teasdale
whispered it among matrons that he would inherit from the wealthy doctor,
who had neither wife nor child. He might not be fair to look upon, but
handsome is that handsome has.

And now the doctor lay sick unto death. Society was out of town, but Lady
Teasdale, with a house full of friends about her down in Hampshire, did not
forget her _protege_; she waited with pleasant expectation for the young
man's release from poverty.

It came in a day or two. Dr. Shergold was dead, and an enterprising
newspaper announced simultaneously that the bulk of his estate would pass
to Mr. Henry Shergold, a gentleman at present studying for his uncle's
profession. This paragraph caught the eye of Harvey Munden, who sent a line
to his friend, to ask if it was true. In reply he received a mere postcard:
'Yes. Will see you before long.' But Harvey wanted to be off to Como, and
as business took him into the city, he crossed the river and sought Maze
Pond. Again the door was opened to him by the landlady's daughter; she
stood looking keenly in his face, her eyes smiling and yet suspicious.

'Mr. Shergold in?' he asked carelessly.

'No, he isn't.' There was a strange bluntness about this answer. The girl
stood forward, as if to bar the entrance, and kept searching his face.

'When is he likely to be?'

'I don't know. He didn't say when he went out.'

A woman's figure appeared in the background. The girl turned and said
sharply, 'All right, mother, it's only somebody for Mr. Shergold.'

'I'll go upstairs and write a note,' said Munden, in a rather peremptory
voice.

The other drew back and allowed him to pass, but with evident
disinclination. As he entered the room, he saw that she had followed. He
went up to a side-table, on which lay a blotting-book, with other
requisites for writing, and then he stood for a moment as if in meditation.

'Your name is Emma, isn't it?' he inquired, looking at the girl with a
smile.

'Yes, it is.'

'Well then, Emma, shut the door, and let's have a talk. Your mother won't
mind, will she?' he added slyly.

The girl tossed her head.

'I don't see what it's got to do with mother.' She closed the door, but did
not latch it. 'What do you want to talk about?'

'You're a very nice girl to look at, Emma, and I've always admired you when
you opened the door to me. I've always liked your nice, respectful way of
speaking, but somehow you don't speak quite so nicely to-day. What has put
you out?'

Her eyes did not quit his face for a moment; her attitude betokened the
utmost keenness of suspicious observation.

'Nothing's put me out, that I know of.'

'Yet you don't speak very nicely--not very respectfully. Perhaps'--he
paused--'perhaps Mr. Shergold is going to leave?'

'P'r'aps he may be.'

'And you're vexed at losing a lodger.'

He saw her lip curl and then she laughed.

'You're wrong there.'

'Then _what_ is it?'

He drew near and made as though he would advance a familiar arm. Emma
started back.

'All right,' she exclaimed, with an insolent nod. 'I'll tell Mr. Shergold.'

'Tell Mr. Shergold? Why? What has it to do with him?'

'A good deal.'

'Indeed? For shame, Emma! I never expected _that_!'

'What do you mean?' she retorted hotly. 'You keep your impudence to
yourself. If you want to know, Mr. Shergold is going to _marry_ me--so
there!'

The stroke was effectual. Harvey Munden stood as if transfixed, but he
recovered himself before a word escaped his lips.

'Ah, that alters the case. I beg your pardon. You won't make trouble
between old friends?'

Vanity disarmed the girl's misgiving. She grinned with satisfaction.

'That depends how you behave.'

'Oh, you don't know me. But promise, now; not a word to Shergold.'

She gave a conditional promise, and stood radiant with her triumph.

'Thanks, that's very good of you. Well, I won't trouble to leave a note.
You shall just tell Shergold that I am leaving England to-morrow for a
holiday. I should _like_ to see him, of course, and I may possibly look
round this evening. If I can't manage it, just tell him that I think he
ought to have given me a chance of congratulating him. May I ask when it is
to be?'

Emma resumed an air of prudery, 'Before very long, I dessay.'

'I wish you joy. Well, I mustn't talk longer now, but I'll do my best to
look in this evening, and then we can all chat together.'

He laughed and she laughed back; and thereupon they parted.

A little after nine that evening, when only a grey reflex of daylight
lingered upon a cloudy sky, Munden stood beneath the plane-trees by Guy's
Hospital waiting. He had walked the length of Maze Pond and had ascertained
that his friend's window as yet showed no light; Shergold was probably
still from home. In the afternoon he had made inquiry at the house of the
deceased doctor, but of Henry nothing was known there; he left a message
for delivery if possible, to the effect that he would call in at Maze Pond
between nine and ten.

At a quarter past the hour there appeared from the direction of London
Bridge a well-known figure, walking slowly, head bent. Munden moved
forward, and, on seeing him, Shergold grasped his hand feverishly.

'Ha! how glad I am to meet you, Munden! Come; let us walk this way.' He
turned from Maze Pond. 'I got your message up yonder an hour or two ago. So
glad I have met you here, old fellow.'

'Well, your day has come,' said Harvey, trying to read his friend's
features in the gloom.

'He has left me about eighty thousand pounds,' Shergold replied, in a low,
shaken voice. 'I'm told there are big legacies to hospitals as well.
Heavens! how rich he was!'

'When is the funeral?'

'Friday.'

'Where shall you live in the meantime?'

'I don't know--I haven't thought about it.'

'I should go to some hotel, if I were you,' said Munden, 'and I have a
proposal to make. If I wait till Saturday, will you come with me to Como?'

Shergold did not at once reply. He was walking hurriedly, and making rather
strange movements with his head and arms. They came into the shadow of the
vaulted way beneath London Bridge Station. At this hour the great tunnel
was quiet, save when a train roared above; the warehouses were closed; one
or two idlers, of forbidding aspect, hung about in the murky gaslight, and
from the far end came a sound of children at play.

'You won't be wanted here?' Munden added.

'No--no--I think not.' There was agitation in the voice.

'Then you will come?'

'Yes, I will come.' Shergold spoke with unnecessary vehemence and laughed
oddly.

'What's the matter with you?' his friend asked.

'Nothing--the change of circumstances, I suppose. Let's get on. Let us go
somewhere--I can't help reproaching myself; I ought to feel or show a
decent sobriety; but what was the old fellow to me? I'm grateful to him.'

'There's nothing else on your mind?'

Shergold looked up, startled.

'What do you mean? Why do you ask?'

They stood together in the black shadow of an interval between two lamps.
After reflecting for a moment, Munden decided to speak.

'I called at your lodgings early to-day, and somehow I got into talk with
the girl. She was cheeky, and her behaviour puzzled me. Finally she made an
incredible announcement--that you had asked her to marry you. Of course
it's a lie?'

'To marry her?' exclaimed the listener hoarsely, with an attempt at
laughter. 'Do you think that likely--after all I have gone through?'

'No, I certainly don't. It staggered me. But what I want to know is, can
she cause trouble?'

'How do I know?--a girl will lie so boldly. She might make a scandal, I
suppose; or threaten it, in hope of getting money out of me.'

'But is there any ground for a scandal?' demanded Harvey.

'Not the slightest, as you mean it.'

'I'm glad to hear that. But she may give you trouble. I see the thing
doesn't astonish you very much; no doubt you were aware of her character.'

'Yes, yes; I know it pretty well. Come, let us get out of this squalid
inferno; how I hate it! Have you had dinner? I don't want any. Let us go to
your rooms, shall we? There'll be a hansom passing the bridge.'

They walked on in silence, and when they had found a cab they drove
westward, talking only of Dr. Shergold's affairs. Munden lived in the
region of the Squares, hard by the British Museum; he took his friend into
a comfortably furnished room, the walls hidden with books and prints, and
there they sat down to smoke, a bottle of whisky within easy reach of both.
It was plain to Harvey that some mystery lay in his friend's reserve on the
subject of the girl Emma; he was still anxious, but would not lead the talk
to unpleasant things. Shergold drank like a thirsty man, and the whisky
seemed to make him silent. Presently he fell into absolute muteness, and
lay wearily back in his chair.

'The excitement has been too much for you,' Munden remarked.

Shergold looked at him, with a painful embarrassment in his features; then
suddenly he bent forward.

'Munden, it's I who have lied. I _did_ ask that girl to marry me.'

'When?'

'Last night.'

'Why?'

'Because for a moment I was insane.' They stared at each other.

'Has she any hold upon you?' Munden asked slowly.

'None whatever, except this frantic offer of mine.'

'Into which she inveigled you?'

'I can't honestly say she did; it was entirely my own fault. She has never
behaved loosely, or even like a schemer. I doubt whether she knew anything
about my uncle, until I told her last night.'

He spoke rapidly, in a thick voice, moving his arms in helpless
protestation. His look was one of unutterable misery.

'Well,' observed Munden, 'the frenzy has at all events passed. You have the
common-sense to treat it as if it had never been; and really I am tempted
to believe that it was literal lunacy. Last night were you drunk?'

'I had drunk nothing. Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I am a fool
about women. I don't know what it is--certainly not a sensual or passionate
nature; mine is nothing of the sort. It's sheer sentimentality, I suppose.
I can't be friendly with a woman without drifting into mawkish
tenderness--there's the simple truth. If I had married happily, I don't
think I should have been tempted to go about philandering. The society of a
wife I loved and respected would be sufficient. But there's that need in
me--the incessant hunger for a woman's sympathy and affection. Such a
hideous mistake as mine when I married would have made a cynic of most men;
upon me the lesson has been utterly thrown away. I mean that, though I can
talk of women rationally enough with a friend, I am at their mercy when
alone with them--at the mercy of the silliest, vulgarest creature. After
all, isn't it very much the same with men in general? The average man--how
does he come to marry? Do you think he deliberately selects? Does he fall
in love, in the strict sense of the phrase, with that one particular girl?
No; it comes about by chance--by the drifting force of circumstances. Not
one man in ten thousand, when he thinks of marriage, waits for the ideal
wife--for the woman who makes capture of his soul or even of his senses.
Men marry without passion. Most of us have a very small circle for choice;
the hazard of everyday life throws us into contact with this girl or that,
and presently we begin to feel either that we have compromised ourselves,
or that we might as well save trouble and settle down as soon as possible,
and the girl at hand will do as well as another. More often than not it is
the girl who decides for us. In more than half the marriages it's the woman
who has practically proposed. She puts herself in a man's way. With her it
rests almost entirely whether a man shall think of her as a possible wife
or not. She has endless ways of putting herself forward without seeming to
do so. As often as not, it's mere passivity that effects the end. She has
only to remain seated instead of moving away; to listen with a smile
instead of looking bored; to be at home instead of being out,--and she is
making love to a man. In a Palace of Truth how many husbands would have to
confess that it decidedly surprised them when they found themselves engaged
to be married? The will comes into play only for a moment or two now and
then. Of course it is made to seem responsible, and in a sense it _is_
responsible, but, in the vast majority of cases, purely as an animal
instinct, confirming the suggestion of circumstances.'

'There's something in all this,' granted the listener, 'but it doesn't
explain the behaviour of a man who, after frightful experience in
marriage--after recovering his freedom--after finding himself welcomed by
congenial society--after inheriting a fortune to use as he likes--goes and
offers himself to an artful hussy in a lodging-house.'

'That's the special case. Look how it came to pass. Months ago I knew I was
drifting into dangerous relations with that girl. Unfortunately I am not a
rascal: I can't think of girls as playthings; a fatal conscientiousness in
an unmarried man of no means. Day after day we grew more familiar. She used
to come up and ask me if I wanted anything; and of course I knew that she
began to come more often than necessary. When she laid a meal for me, we
talked--half an hour at a time. The mother, doubtless, looked on with
approval; Emma had to find a husband, and why not me as well as another?
They knew I was a soft creature--that I never made a row about
anything--was grateful for anything that looked like kindness--and so on.
Just the kind of man to be captured. But no--I don't want to make out that
I am their victim; that's a feeble excuse, and a worthless one. The average
man would either have treated the girl as a servant, and so kept her at her
distance, or else he would have alarmed her by behaviour which suggested
anything you like but marriage. As for me, I hadn't the common-sense to
take either of these courses. I made a friend of the girl; talked to her
more and more confidentially; and at last--fatal moment--told her my
history. Yes, I was ass enough to tell that girl the whole story of my
life. Can you conceive such folly?

'Yet the easiest thing in the world to understand. We were alone in the
house one evening. After trying to work for about an hour I gave it up. I
knew that the mother was out, and I heard Emma moving downstairs. I was
lonely and dispirited--wanted to talk--to talk about myself to some one who
would give a kind ear. So I went down, and made some excuse for beginning a
conversation in the parlour. It lasted a couple of hours; we were still
talking when the mother came back. I didn't persuade myself that I cared
for Emma, even then. Her vulgarisms of speech and feeling jarred upon me.
But she was feminine; she spoke and looked gently, with sympathy. I enjoyed
that evening--and you must bear in mind what I have told you before, that I
stand in awe of refined women. I am their equal, I know; I can talk with
them; their society is an exquisite delight to me;--but when it comes to
thinking of intimacy with one of them--! Perhaps it is my long years of
squalid existence. Perhaps I have come to regard myself as doomed to life
on a lower level. I find it an impossible thing to imagine myself offering
marriage--making love--to a girl such as those I meet in the big houses.'

'You will outgrow that,' said Munden.

'Yes, yes,--I hope and believe so. And wouldn't it be criminal to deny
myself even the chance, now that I have money? All to-day I have been
tortured like a soul that beholds its salvation lost by a moment's weakness
of the flesh. You can imagine what my suffering has been; it drove me into
sheer lying. I had resolved to deny utterly that I had asked Emma to marry
me--to deny it with a savage boldness, and take the consequences.'

'A most rational resolve, my dear fellow. Pray stick to it. But you haven't
told me yet how the dizzy culmination of your madness was reached. You say
that you proposed _last night_?'

'Yes--and simply for the pleasure of telling Emma, when she had accepted
me, that I had eighty thousand pounds! You can't understand that? I suppose
the change of fortune has made me a little light-headed; I have been going
about with a sense of exaltation which has prompted me to endless follies.
I have felt a desire to be kind to people--to bestow happiness--to share my
joy with others. If I had some of the doctor's money in my pocket, I should
have given away five-pound notes.'

'You contented yourself,' said Munden, laughing, 'with giving a
promissory-note for the whole legacy.'

'Yes; but try to understand. Emma came up to my room at supper-time, and as
usual we talked. I didn't say anything about my uncle's death--yet I felt
the necessity of telling her creep fatally upon me. There was a conflict in
my mind, between common-sense and that awful sentimentality which is my
curse. When Emma came up again after supper, she mentioned that her mother
was gone with a friend to a theatre. "Why don't you go?" I said. "Oh, I
don't go anywhere." "But after all," I urged consolingly, "August isn't
exactly the time for enjoying the theatre." She admitted it wasn't; but
there was the Exhibition at Earl's Court, she had heard so much of it, and
wanted to go. "Then suppose we go together one of these evenings?"

'You see? Idiot!--and I couldn't help it. My tongue spoke these imbecile
words in spite of my brain. All very well, if I had meant what another man
would; but I didn't, and the girl knew I didn't. And she looked at me--and
then--why, mere brute instinct did the rest--no, not mere instinct, for it
was complicated with that idiot desire to see how the girl would look, hear
what she would say, when she knew that I had given her eighty thousand
pounds. You can't understand?'

'As a bit of morbid psychology--yes.'

'And the frantic proceeding made me happy! For an hour or two I behaved as
if I loved the girl with all my soul. And afterwards I was still happy. I
walked up and down my bedroom, making plans for the future--for her
education, and so on. I saw all sorts of admirable womanly qualities in
her. I _was_ in love with her, and there's an end of it!'

Munden mused for a while, then laid down his pipe.

'Remarkably suggestive, Shergold, the name of the street in which you have
been living. Well, you don't go back there?'

'No. I have come to my senses. I shall go to an hotel for to-night, and
send presently for all my things.'

'To be sure, and on Saturday--or on Friday evening, if you like, we leave
England.'

It was evident that Shergold rejoiced with trembling.

'But I can't stick to the lie.' he said. 'I shall compensate the girl. You
see, by running away I make confession that there's something wrong. I
shall see a solicitor and put the matter into his hands.'

'As you please. But let the solicitor exercise his own discretion as to
damages.'

'Damages!' Shergold pondered the word. 'I suppose she won't drag me into
court--make a public ridicule of me? If so, there's an end of my hopes. I
couldn't go among people after that.'

'I don't see why not. But your solicitor will probably manage the affair.
They have their methods,' Munden added drily.

Early the next morning Shergold despatched a telegram to Maze Pond,
addressed to his landlady. It said that he would be kept away by business
for a day or two. On Friday he attended his uncle's funeral, and that
evening he left Charing Cross with Harvey Munden, _en route_ for Como.

There, a fortnight later, Shergold received from his solicitor a
communication which put an end to his feigning of repose and hopefulness.
That he did but feign, Harvey Munden felt assured; signs of a troubled
conscience, or at all events of restless nerves, were evident in all his
doing and conversing; now he once more made frank revelation of his
weakness.

'There's the devil to pay. She won't take money. She's got a lawyer, and is
going to bring me into court. I've authorised Reckitt to offer as much as
five thousand pounds,--it's no good. He says her lawyer has evidently
encouraged her to hope for enormous damages, and then she'll have the
satisfaction of making me the town-talk. It's all up with me, Munden. My
hopes are vanished like--what is it in Dante?--_il fumo in aere ed in aqua
la schiuma_!'

Smoking a Cavour, Munden lay back in the shadow of the pergola, and seemed
to disdain reply.

'Your advice?'

'What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- do
her worst!'

Shergold winced.

'We mustn't forget that it's all my fault.'

'Yes, just as it's your own fault you didn't die on the day of your birth!'

'I must raise the offer--'

'By all means; offer ten thousand. I suppose a jury would give her two
hundred and fifty.'

'But the scandal--the ridicule--'

'Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom and
save your life.'

'That's one way of looking at it. I half believe it might be effectual.'

He kept alone for most of the day. In the evening, from nine to ten, he
went upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunk
in a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short,
nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And when
the next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, a
waiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started for
London,' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean to
do is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of _that_ is
too much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a few
days.'

The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt. His next letter from
Shergold came in about ten days; it informed him very briefly that the
writer was 'about to be married,' and that in less than a week he would
have started with his wife on a voyage round the world. Harvey did not
reply; indeed, the letter contained no address.

One day in November he was accosted at the club by his familiar bore.

'So your friend Shergold is dead?'

'Dead? I know nothing of it.'

'Really? They talked of it last night at Lady Teasdale's. He died a few
days ago, at Calcutta. Dysentery, or something of that kind. His wife
cabled to some one or other.'




THE SALT OF THE EARTH


Strong and silent the tide of Thames flowed upward, and over it swept the
morning tide of humanity. Through white autumnal mist yellow sunbeams