Some such idle fancy it may have been that made the man turn from the usual way down a narrow passage into which opened doors from small offices.  Margaret Howth, he had learned to-day, was in the first one.  He hesitated before he did it, his sallow face turning a trifle paler; then he went on in his hard, grave way, wondering dimly if she remembered his step, if she cared to see him now.  She used to know it,—­she was the only one in the world who ever had cared to know it,—­silly child!  Doubtless she was wiser now.  He remembered he used to think, that, when this woman loved, it would be as he himself would love, with a simple trust which the wrong of years could not touch.  And once he had thought—­Well, well, he was mistaken.  Poor Margaret!  Better as it was.  They were nothing to each other.  She had put him from her, and he had suffered himself to be put away.  Why, he would have given up every prospect of life, if he had done otherwise!  Yet he wondered bitterly if she had thought him selfish,—­if she thought it was money he cared for, as the others did.  It mattered nothing what they thought, but it wounded him intolerably that she should wrong him.  Yet, with all this, whenever he looked forward to death, it was with the certainty that he should find her there beyond.  There would be no secrets then; she would know then how he had loved her always.  Loved her?  Yes; he need not hide it from himself, surely.

He was now by the door of the office;—­she was within.  Little Margaret, poor little Margaret! struggling there day after day for the old father and mother.  What a pale, cold little child she used to be! such a child! yet kindling at his look or touch, as if her veins were filled with subtile flame.  Her soul was like his own, he thought.  He knew what it was,—­he only.  Even now he glowed with a man’s triumph to know he held the secret life of this woman bare in his hand.  No other human power could ever come near her; he was secure in possession.  She had put him from her;—­it was better for both, perhaps.  Their paths were separate here; for she had some unreal notions of duty, and he had too much to do in the world to clog himself with cares, or to idle an hour in the rare ecstasy of even love like this.

He passed the office, not pausing in his slow step.  Some sudden impulse made him put his hand on the door as he brushed against it:  just a quick, light touch; but it had all the fierce passion of a caress.  He drew it back as quickly, and went on, wiping a clammy sweat from his face.

The room he had fitted up for himself was whitewashed and barely furnished; it made one’s bones ache to look at the iron bedstead and chairs.  Holmes’s natural taste was more glowing, however smothered, than that of any saffron-robed Sybarite.  It needed correction, he knew, and this was the discipline.  Besides, he had set apart the coming three or four years of his life to make money in, enough for the time to come.  He would devote his whole strength