“Unless what?”

“Unless you go down there.”  Sangster spoke deliberately now.  In spite of his calm assertion that there was no harm in Kettering’s visit to Upton House, his anxious eyes had noticed the indefinable something in Kettering’s manner towards Christine that had struck Gladys Leighton that first evening.  Sangster knew men well, and he knew, without any plainer signs or telling, that it was not the house itself that took Kettering there so often, but the little mistress of the house, with her sweet eyes and her pathetic little smile.

He got up and laid a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as he spoke.

“Why not go down yourself?” he said casually.

Jimmy swore.

“I said I wouldn’t. . . .  I’m not going to be the first to give in.  It was her doing—­she sent me away.  If she wants me she can say so.”

“She has her pride, too, you know,”

Jimmy swore again.  He was feeling very ill and upset; he was firmly convinced that he was the most ill-used beggar in the whole of London.  Remorse was gnawing hard at his heart, though he was trying to believe that it was entirely another emotion.  He had not slept properly for nights; his head ached, and his nerves were jumpy.

“I’ll not go till she sends for me,” he said again obstinately.

Sangster made no comment.

He did not see Jimmy again for some days, though he heard of him once or twice from a mutual acquaintance.

“Challoner’s going to the devil, I should think,” so the mutual acquaintance informed him bluntly.  “What’s the matter with the chap?  Hasn’t anybody got any influence over him?  He’s drinking hard and gambling his soul away.”

Sangster said “Rubbish!” with a confidence he was far from feeling.

He did not really believe it; he knew Jimmy was a bit reckless and inclined to behave wildly when things did not entirely go to his taste, but he considered this a gross exaggeration of the truth; he made a mental note to look Jimmy up the following day.

But it was the very same night that Costin, Jimmy Challoner’s man, presented himself at the rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury and asked anxiously for Mr. Sangster.

Sangster heard his voice in the narrow passage outside and recognised it.  He left his supper—­a very meagre supper of bread and cheese, as funds were low that week—­and went to the door.

“Do you want me, Costin?”

The man looked relieved.

“Yes, sir—­if you please, sir.  It’s Mr. Challoner, I’m afraid he’s very ill, but he won’t let me send for a doctor, so I just slipped out and came round to you, sir.”

* * * * * *

Sangster found Jimmy Challoner huddled up in an arm-chair by a roasting fire.  His face looked red and feverish, his eyes had a sort of unnatural glazed look, but he was sufficiently well to be able to swear when he saw his friend.