He mastered the faint chill of fear that came with the decision, and turned in his walk abruptly.  Should fear grow on him again he would, perhaps, take one more glass of brandy....

But by the time he reached the short street that led to the square he was too late for more brandy.  The little public-house was still lighted, but closed, and one or two men were standing talking on the kerb.  Oleron noticed that a sudden silence fell on them as he passed, and he noticed further that the long-nosed Barrett, whom he passed a little lower down, did not return his good-night.  He turned in at the broken gate, hesitated merely an instant in the alley, and then mounted his stairs again.

Only an inch of candle remained in the Sheffield stick, and Oleron did not light another one.  Deliberately he forced himself to take it up and to make the tour of his five rooms before retiring.  It was as he returned from the kitchen across his little hall that he noticed that a letter lay on the floor.  He carried it into his sitting-room, and glanced at the envelope before opening it.

It was unstamped, and had been put into the door by hand.  Its handwriting was clumsy, and it ran from beginning to end without comma or period.  Oleron read the first line, turned to the signature, and then finished the letter.

It was from the man Barrett, and it informed Oleron that he, Barrett, would be obliged if Mr. Oleron would make other arrangements for the preparing of his breakfasts and the cleaning-out of his place.  The sting lay in the tail, that is to say, the postscript.  This consisted of a text of Scripture.  It embodied an allusion that could only be to Elsie Bengough....

A seldom-seen frown had cut deeply into Oleron’s brow.  So!  That was it!  Very well; they would see about that on the morrow....  For the rest, this seemed merely another reason why Elsie should keep away....

Then his suppressed rage broke out....

The foul-minded lot!  The devil himself could not have given a leer at anything that had ever passed between Paul Oleron and Elsie Bengough, yet this nosing rascal must be prying and talking!...

Oleron crumpled the paper up, held it in the candle flame, and then ground the ashes under his heel.

One useful purpose, however, the letter had served:  it had created in Oleron a wrathful blaze that effectually banished pale shadows.  Nevertheless, one other puzzling circumstance was to close the day.  As he undressed, he chanced to glance at his bed.  The coverlets bore an impress as if somebody had lain on them.  Oleron could not remember that he himself had lain down during the day—­off-hand, he would have said that certainly he had not; but after all he could not be positive.  His indignation for Elsie, acting possibly with the residue of the brandy in him, excluded all other considerations; and he put out his candle, lay down, and passed immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep, which, in the absence of Mrs. Barrett’s morning call, lasted almost once round the clock.