“Now, whoever is that worriting this time of the night?” With sleeves rolled up over bare and plump arms she went to the door.

“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Bonner.  I ’eard about you losing your lodger.”

Mrs. Bonner stared into the darkness.

“Oh, it’s you!” Judging by the expression of her voice, the visitor was not a favoured one.

“Yes, it’s me!”

“Well, what do you want, Alice Betts?”

“Oh, nothing.  I thought I’d just call in friendly-like.”

“Very good of you, only I’m busy cleaning up.”

“Men do make a mess, don’t they?  Fancy ’is going off like that.  I wonder if the letter had anything to do with it?”

“Letter?”

“Yes, the one Miss Joan give our Bob to bring ’im this afternoon.”

“Ha!” said Mrs. Bonner.  “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Nor should I. I wonder what he is to her, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.  I ain’t bothered my head thinking.  It ain’t none of my business, Alice Betts.”

Alice Betts giggled.

“Well, any’ow he’s gone,” she said, and Mrs. Bonner did not contradict her.  “And gone sudden.”

“Very!”

“Depend on it, it was the letter done it.  Well, I won’t be keeping you.”

“No, I ain’t got no time for talking,” said Mrs. Bonner, and closed the door.  “A nosey Parker if ever there was one!  Always shoving ’er saller face where she ain’t wanted.  I can’t abide that gel!”

Miss Alice Betts hurried off to the Bettses’ cottage in Starden.

“I got a letter to write in a ’urry.  Give me a paper and envelope,” she demanded.

“Mister P. Slotman, Dear sir,” Alice wrote.  “This is to imform you, as agreed, that Mister Alston has gone.  Miss Jone writ him a letter, what about cannot say, only as soon as he gets it, he packs up and leaves Starden.  I have been to Mrs. Bonner’s to make sure and find it is correck, him having packed up and gone to London.  So no more at present from yours truely, miss Alice Betts.”

And this letter, addressed to Mr. P. Slotman at the new address with which he had furnished her, went out from Starden by the early morning mail.

After Mrs. Bonner’s comfortable but restricted cottage, it was good to be back in the spacious old rooms of Hurst Dormer.  Hugh Alston was a home man.  He had wired Mrs. Morrisey, and now he was back.  To-night he slept once again in his own bed, the bed he had slept in since boyhood.

The following morning brought a telegram delivered by a shock-headed village urchin.

    “I will be with you and so glad to see you on Saturday—­Marjorie.”

Saturday, and he had hurried so that he might see her to-day.

It was not till late Saturday afternoon that Marjorie came at last, and Hugh had been fuming up and down, looking for her since early morning.  Yet if he felt any ill-temper at her delay it was gone at a sight of the little face, so white and woebegone, so frankly miserable and unhappy that his heart ached for the child.