So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, and smoked his cigar, and read his letter; or, rather, simply that paragraph of the letter which referred to Miss Dale.  ’The tidings of her death have disturbed her, and set her thinking again of things that were fading from her mind.’  He understood it all.  And yet how could it possibly be so?  How could it be that she should not despise a man—­despise him if she did not hate him—­who had behaved as this man had behaved to her?  It was now four years since this Crosbie had been engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man in London who had heard the story.  He had married an earl’s daughter, who had left him within a few months of their marriage, and now Mr Crosbie’s noble wife was dead.  The wife was dead, and simply because the man was free again, he, John Eames, was to be told that Miss Dale’s mind was ‘disturbed’, and that her thoughts were going back to things which had faded from her memory, and which should have been long since banished altogether from such holy ground.

If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr Crosbie, anything so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames would never have yet been told in romance.  That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his cigar.  I have said that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it.  He acknowledged the fact of his love, and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob; but he felt that it was hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion.  It was not four years ago—­that affair of Crosbie—­and Miss Dale should have accepted him long since.  Half-a-dozen times he had made up his mind to be very stern with her; and he had written somewhat sternly—­but the first moment that he saw her he was conquered again.  ’And now that brute will reappear and everything will be wrong again,’ he said to himself.  If the brute did reappear, something should happen of which the world would hear the tidings.  So he lit another cigar, and began to think what that something should be.

As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in the next room, and he knew that Sir Raffle had come back from the Treasury.  There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a ringing of bells, and then a loud angry voice—­a voice that was very harsh, and on this occasion very angry.  Why had not his twelve o’clock letters been sent up to him to the West End?  Why not?  Mr Eames knew all about it.  Why did Mr Eames know all about it?  Why had not Mr Eames not sent them up?  Where was Mr Eames?  Let Mr Eames be sent to him.  All which Mr Eames heard standing with the cigar in his mouth and his back to the fire.  ’Somebody has been bullying old Buffle, I suppose.  After all he as been up at the Treasure today,’ said Eames to himself.  But he did not stir till the messenger had been to him, nor even then at once.  ’All right, Rafferty,’ he said; ‘I’ll go just now.’  Then he took half-a-dozen more whiffs from the cigar, threw the remainder into the fire, and opened the door which communicated between his room and Sir Raffle’s.