“I’ve come to see you for the last time,” he announced.  “After the way you behaved in Court, we can no longer be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” she said in rather a faltering voice.  “What have I done?”

“Only perjured yourself,” Shiel retorted.  “The tale you told the judge was very different to the tale you told me, therefore it is impossible for us to continue our friendship.  I could never have anything to do with a woman whose word I can’t rely upon—­whose character I scorn, whom I despise—­and—­” he was going to add, “detest,” but checked himself, and unable to trust himself in her presence any longer, he gave her a glance of the utmost contempt, and wheeling round, walked quickly away.

As in a dream, Lilian Rosenberg went upstairs to her room, and throwing herself on the bed, buried her face in the pillow and indulged in a fit of crying.  It was not the thought of losing Shiel that was so painful to her—­she might have grown reconciled to that—­it was the thought of losing his esteem.  Most people would agree with her—­would assure her she had done the right thing in looking after number one.  “What, after all, is perjury?” she argued.  “Nearly every one in this world perjure themselves at one time or another—­certainly all women.”

But it was not the opinion of the majority she cared about—­it was the respect of the one; the respect she had wilfully and spitefully sacrificed.

Was it too late to recover it?

With regard to Gladys she was very sceptical.  The reluctance to accept Hamar as her future husband she still believed to be all pretence, and she felt convinced that Gladys, in her heart of hearts, was only too glad to get the chance of marrying any one so rich.  This being so, she could not bring herself to think she had done Shiel any actual wrong.  Gladys would never marry him.  The only person she had harmed was herself.  She had lied, and Shiel was not the sort of man to condone an offence of that sort easily.  Still, weeping would do no good; it would only make her ugly.  She got up, had tea, and went out.  She could think better in the open air—­it soothed her.  For some reason or other—­custom perhaps—­she strolled towards Cockspur Street, and there ran into one of the few people she particularly wished to avoid—­Kelson.

He was delighted to see her.

“It’s nectar to me to be out again,” he said.  “Jerusalem!—­it was awful in the Courts.  Have supper with me.”

It was a fine starlight night—­the air cool and refreshing, and a wild abandonment seized Lilian Rosenberg.  She would have supped with the devil had he asked her.

“I’ve nothing to lose now,” she said to herself.  “Nothing!  I’ll have my fling.”

“Where shall we go?” she asked.  “It must be somewhere entertaining.”

“Why not to my rooms?” he said.  “We can talk better there—­we shall be all alone!”

She raised no objection, and they were about to step into a taxi, when Hamar and Curtis suddenly put in appearance.