“It’s all right—­she is reasonable now,” he said in a low voice.  “Brace up, Jack; I’ll see you through this.  Jimmie, go over and pay the account, will you?  Here is the money.  And say that I will send for the trap to-morrow.”

Nevill entered the cab, and it rattled swiftly down the hill.  As the echo of the wheels died away, Jack dropped on a bench and hid his face in his hands.

“I’ll be back in a moment, old chap,” said Jimmie.  “Wait here.”

He had scarcely crossed the street when Jack rose.  His agony seemed too intense to bear, and even yet he did not realize all that the blow meant.  For the moment he was hardly responsible for his actions, and a glimpse of the river, shining far below, lured him on blindly and aimlessly.  A little farther along the Terrace, just beyond the upper side of the gardens, was a footway leading down to the lower road and the Thames.  He followed this, swaying like a drunken man, and he had reached the iron stile at the bottom when Jimmie, who had sighted him in the distance, overtook him and caught his arm.  Jack shook him roughly off.

“What do you want?” he said, hoarsely.

“Don’t take it so hard,” pleaded Jimmie.  “I’m awfully sorry for you, old man.  I know it’s a knock-down blow, but—­”

“You don’t know half.  It’s worse than you think.  I am the most miserable wretch on earth!  And an hour ago I was the happiest—­”

“Come with me,” said Jimmie.  “That’s a good fellow.”

Jack did not resist.  Linked arm in arm with his friend, he stumbled along the narrow pavement of the lower road.  At The Pigeons they found a cab that had just set down a fare.  They got into it, and Jimmie gave the driver his orders.

It seemed a short ride to Jack, and while it lasted not a word passed his lips.  He sat in a stupor, with dull, burning eyes and a throbbing head.  In all his thoughts he recalled the lovely, smiling face of Madge.  And now she was lost to him forever—­there was a barrier between them that severed their lives.  In his heart he bitterly cursed the day when he had yielded to the wiles of Diane Merode, the popular dancer of the Folies Bergere.

The cab stopped, and he reeled up a dark flight of steps.  He was sitting in a big chair in his studio, with the gas burning overhead, and Jimmie staring at him with an expression of heartfelt sympathy on his honest face.

“This was the best place to bring you,” he said.

Jack rose, and paced to and fro.  He looked haggard and dazed; his hair and clothing were disheveled.

“Tell me, Jimmie,” he cried, “is it all a dream, or is it true?”

“I wish it wasn’t true, old man.  But you’re taking it too hard—­you’re as white as a ghost.  It can be kept out of the papers, you know.  And you won’t have to live with her—­you can pension her off and send her abroad.  I dare say she’s after money.  Women are the very devil, Jack, ain’t they?  I could tell you about a little scrape of my own, with Totsy Footlights, of the Casino—­”