Brott walked out into the streets with the half sheet of note-paper twisted up between his fingers.  For the first time for months he was conscious of a distinct and vivid sense of happiness.  The terrible period of indecision was past.  He knew now where he stood.  Nor was his immediate departure from England altogether unpleasant to him.  His political career was shattered—­friends and enemies were alike cold to him.  Such an act of cowardice as his, such pitiful shrinking back at the last fateful moment, was inexplicable and revolting.  Even Letheringham was barely civil.  It was certain that his place in the Cabinet would be intolerable.  He yearned for escape from it all, and the means of escape were now at hand.  In after years he knew very well that the shadow of his broken trust, the torture of his misused opportunities, would stand for ever between him and the light.  But at that moment he was able to clear his mind of all such disquieting thoughts.  He had won Lucille —­never mind at what cost, at what peril!  He had won Lucille!

He was deeply engrossed, and his name was spoken twice in his ear before he turned round.  A small, somewhat shabby-looking man, with tired eyes and more than a day’s growth of beard upon his chin, had accosted him.

“Mr. Brott, sir.  A word with you, please.”

Brott held out his hand.  Nevertheless his tone when he spoke lacked heartiness.

“You, Hedley!  Why, what brings you to London?”

The little man did not seem to see the hand.  At any rate he made no motion to take it.

“A few minutes’ chat with Mr. Brott.  That’s what I’ve come for.”

Brott raised his eyebrows, and nodded in somewhat constrained fashion.

“Well,” he said, “I am on my way to my rooms.  We can talk as we go, if you like.  I am afraid the good people up in your part of the world are not too well pleased with me.”

The little man smiled rather queerly.

“That is quite true,” he answered calmly.  “They hate a liar and a turn-coat.  So do I!”

Brott stopped short upon the pavement.

“If you are going to talk like that to me, Hedley,” he said, “the less you have to say the better.”

The man nodded.

“Very well,” he said.  “What I have to say won’t take me very long.  But as I’ve tramped most of the way up here to say it, you’ll have to listen here or somewhere else.  I thought you were always one who liked the truth.”

“So I do!” Brott answered.  “Go on!”

The man shuffled along by his side.  They were an odd-looking pair, for Brott was rather a careful man as regards his toilet, and his companion looked little better than a tramp.

“All my life,” he continued, “I’ve been called ‘Mad Hedley,’ or ‘Hedley, the mad tailor.’  Sometimes one and sometimes the other.  It don’t matter which.  There’s truth in, it.  I am a bit mad.  You, Mr. Brott, were one of those who understood me a little.  I have brooded a good deal perhaps, and things have got muddled up in my brain.  You know what has been at the bottom of it all.