“I should have thought that you had got something to think about, which would make it easy for you to prevent your thoughts straying elsewhere,” he said.

“I shall need all the distractions I can get,” said Morris rather grimly.

* * * * *

Morris walked quickly back along the sea front toward Sussex Square, and remembered as he went that he had not yet bought any gift for his mother on her birthday.  There was something, too, which she had casually said a day or two ago that she wanted, what was it?  Ah, yes, a new blotting-book for her writing-table in the drawing-room.  The shop she habitually dealt at for such things, a branch of Asprey’s, was only a few yards farther on, and he turned in to make inquiries as to whether she had ordered it.  It appeared that she had been in that very morning, but the parcel had not been sent yet.  So Morris, taking the responsibility on himself, counterordered the plain red morocco book she had chosen, and chose another, with fine silver scrollwork at the corners.  He ordered, too, that a silver lettered inscription should be put on it.  “H.A. from M.A.” with the date, two days ahead, “June 24th, l905.”  This he gave instructions should be sent to the house on the morning of June 24th, the day after to-morrow.  He wished it to be sent so as to arrive with the early post on that morning.

* * * * *

The promise which Morris had made his old friend not to let his thoughts dwell on suspicion and conjecture as yet uncertain of foundation was one of those promises which are made in absolute good faith, but which in their very nature cannot be kept.  The thought of the hideous treachery, the gratuitous falsehood, of which, in his mind, he felt convinced Godfrey Mills had been guilty was like blood soaking through a bandage.  All that he could do was to continue putting on fresh bandages—­that was all of his promise that he was able to fulfill, and in spite of the bandages the blood stained and soaked its way through.  In the afternoon he took out the motor, but his joy in it for the time was dead, and it was only because in the sense of pace and swift movement he hoped to find a narcotic to thought, that he went out at all.  But there was no narcotic there, nor even in the thought of this huge joy of love that had dawned on him was there forgetfulness for all else, joy and sorrow and love, were for the present separated from him by these hideous and libellous things that had been said about him.  Until they were removed, until they passed into non-existence again, nothing had any significance for him.  Everything was coloured with them; bitterness as of blood tinged everything.  Hours, too, must pass before they could be removed; this long midsummer day had to draw to its end, night had to pass; the hour of early dawn, the long morning had to be numbered with the past before he could even learn who was responsible for this poisoned tale.