And Cleek was unusually thoughtful from that period onward; speaking hardly a word through all the journey home.  For now that the events which had occupied his mind for the past two or three days were over and done with, his memory harked back to those things which had to do with his own affairs, and he caught himself wondering how matters had gone with Ailsa Lorne; which of the two positions—­the English one or the French—­she had finally elected to apply for; and if time had as yet softened the shock of that disclosure made in the mist and darkness at Hampstead Heath.

He had, of course, heard nothing of her since that time; and the days he had spent at Richmond had utterly precluded the possibility of giving himself that small pleasure—­so often indulged in—­of adopting a safe disguise, prowling about the neighbourhood where she lived until she should come forth upon one errand or another, and then following her, unsuspected.

That she could have taken the knowledge of what he once had been in no other way than she had done; that to such a woman, such a man must at the first blush be an object of abhorrence—­a thing to be put out of her life as completely and as expeditiously as possible—­he fully realised; yet, at bottom, he was conscious of a hope that Time—­even so little as had passed—­might lend a softening influence that should lead eventually to Pity, and from that to a day when the word Forgiveness might be spoken.

He wanted that forgiveness—­the soul of the man needed it, as parched plants need water.  He had not climbed up out of himself without some struggle, some moments when he wavered between what he had become, and what Nature had written that he was meant to be; for no Soul is purged all in a moment, no man may conquer himself with just one solitary fight.  He needed her forgiveness, the thought of her, the hope of her, to rivet his armour for the long, brave fight.  He needed her Friendship—­if he might never have her love he needed that.  And if she were to pass like this from his life....  If the Light were to go out ... and all the long, dark way of the Future still to be faced....  Something within him seemed to writhe.  He took his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it hard.

That he had hoped for some token, some word—­forwarded through Mr. Narkom—­he did not quite realise until he got back to Clarges Street and found that there was none.

Followed a sense of despair, a moment of deep dejection, that passed in turn and gave place to a feeling of personal injury, of savage resentment, and of the ferocity which comes when the half-tamed wolf wakes to the realisation that here is nothing before it evermore, but the bars of the cage and the goad of the keeper; and that far and away in the world there are still the free woods, the naked body of Nature, and the savage company of its kind.

Under the stress of that gust of passion, he sent Dollops flying from the room.  He wrenched open the drawer of his writing-table, and scooped up in his hands some trifles of faded ribbon and trinkets of gold—­things that he treasured, none knew why or for what—­and holding them thus, looked down on them and laughed, bitterly and savagely, as though a devil were within him.