“Don’t go just yet.  I’m leaving in a minute.”

“Leaving?  Where for?”

“London; I have to go up to-night about some business.”

“Indeed; when are you coming back?”

“I don’t quite know—­to-morrow, perhaps.  I wonder, Belle,” he went on, his voice shaking a little, “if you will always think as badly of me as you do now.”

“I?” she said, opening her eyes widely; “who am I that I should judge you?  However bad you may be, I am worse.”

“Perhaps there are excuses to be made for both of us,” he said; “perhaps, after all, there is no such thing as free will, and we are nothing but pawns moved by a higher power.  Who knows?  But I will not keep you any longer.  Good-bye—­Belle!”

“Yes.”

“May I kiss you before I go?”

She looked at him in astonishment.  Her first impulse was to refuse.  He had not kissed her for years.  But something in the man’s face touched her.  It was always a refined and melancholy face, but to-night it wore a look which to her seemed almost unearthly.

“Yes, William, if you wish,” she said; “but I wonder that you care to.”

“Let the dead bury their dead,” he answered, and stooping he put his arm round her delicate waist and drawing her to him kissed her tenderly but without passion on her forehead.  “There, good-night,” he said; “I wish that I had been a better husband to you.  Good-night,” and he was gone.

When he reached his room he flung himself for a few moments face downwards upon the bed, and from the convulsive motion of his back an observer might almost have believed that he was sobbing.  When he rose, there was no trace of tears or tenderness upon his features.  On the contrary, they were stern and set, like the features of one bent upon some terrible endeavour.  Going to a drawer, he unlocked it and took from it a Colt’s revolver of the small pattern.  It was loaded, but he extracted the cartridges and replaced them with fresh ones from a tin box.  Then he went downstairs, put on a large ulster with a high collar, and a soft felt hat, the brim of which he turned down over his face, placed the pistol in the pocket of his ulster, and started.

It was a dreadful night, the wind was blowing a heavy gale, and between the gusts the rain came down in sheets of driving spray.  Nobody was about the streets—­the weather was far too bad; and Mr. Quest reached the station without meeting a living soul.  Outside the circle of light from a lamp over the doorway he paused, and looked about for the clerk Jones.  Presently, he saw him walking backwards and forwards under the shelter of a lean-to, and going up, touched him on the shoulder.

The man started back.

“Have you got the ticket, Jones?” he asked.

“Lord, sir,” said Jones, “I didn’t know you in that get-up.  Yes, here it is.”

“Is the woman there still?”