him that the fellow would come back there to see if he were gone, and he placed himself before a rose-bush, where, at that reappearance, he could make a sign of recognition.  Sure enough, he came; and Winton quietly raising his hand to the salute passed on through the drawing-room window.  He went quickly into the hall, listened a second, and opened the dining-room door.  Fiorsen was pacing up and down, pale and restless.  He came to a standstill and stared haggardly at Winton, who said: 

“How are you?  Gyp not in?”

“No.”

Something in the sound of that “No” touched Winton with a vague—­a very vague—­compunction.  To be left by Gyp!  Then his heart hardened again.  The fellow was a rotter—­he was sure of it, had always been sure.

“Baby looks well,” he said.

Fiorsen turned and began to pace up and down again.

“Where is Gyp?  I want her to come in.  I want her.”

Winton took out his watch.

“It’s not late.”  And suddenly he felt a great aversion for the part he was playing.  To get the baby; to make Gyp safe—­yes!  But, somehow, not this pretence that he knew nothing about it.  He turned on his heel and walked out.  It imperilled everything; but he couldn’t help it.  He could not stay and go on prevaricating like this.  Had that woman got clear?  He went back into the drawing-room.  There they were—­just passing the side of the house.  Five minutes, and they would be down at the turning.  He stood at the window, waiting.  If only that fellow did not come in!  Through the partition wall he could hear him still tramping up and down the dining-room.  What a long time a minute was!  Three had gone when he heard the dining-room door opened, and Fiorsen crossing the hall to the front door.  What was he after, standing there as if listening?  And suddenly he heard him sigh.  It was just such a sound as many times, in the long-past days, had escaped himself, waiting, listening for footsteps, in parched and sickening anxiety.  Did this fellow then really love—­almost as he had loved?  And in revolt at spying on him like this, he advanced and said: 

“Well, I won’t wait any longer.”

Fiorsen started; he had evidently supposed himself alone.  And Winton thought:  ‘By Jove! he does look bad!’

“Good-bye!” he said; but the words:  “Give my love to Gyp,” perished on their way up to his lips.

“Good-bye!” Fiorsen echoed.  And Winton went out under the trellis, conscious of that forlorn figure still standing at the half-opened door.  Betty was nowhere in sight; she must have reached the turning.  His mission had succeeded, but he felt no elation.  Round the corner, he picked up his convoy, and, with the perambulator hoisted on to the taxi, journeyed on at speed.  He had said he would explain in the cab, but the only remark he made was: 

“You’ll all go down to Mildenham to-morrow.”