June 25. 
My dear Ferrand,

I am grieved to hear of your misfortunes.  I was much hoping that you had made a better start.  I enclose you Post Office Orders for four pounds.  Always glad to hear from you.

Yours sincerely,
Richard Shelton.

He posted it with the satisfaction that a man feels who nobly shakes off his responsibilities.

Three days before July he met with one of those disturbing incidents which befall no persons who attend quietly to their, property and reputation.

The night was unbearably hot, and he had wandered out with his cigar; a woman came sidling up and spoke to him.  He perceived her to be one of those made by men into mediums for their pleasure, to feel sympathy with whom was sentimental.  Her face was flushed, her whisper hoarse; she had no attractions but the curves of a tawdry figure.  Shelton was repelled by her proprietary tone, by her blowzy face, and by the scent of patchouli.  Her touch on his arm startled him, sending a shiver through his marrow; he almost leaped aside, and walked the faster.  But her breathing as she followed sounded laboured; it suddenly seemed pitiful that a woman should be panting after him like that.

“The least I can do,” he thought, “is to speak to her.”  He stopped, and, with a mixture of hardness and compassion, said, “It ’s impossible.”

In spite of her smile, he saw by her disappointed eyes that she accepted the impossibility.

“I ’m sorry,” he said.

She muttered something.  Shelton shook his head.

“I ’m sorry,” he said once more.  “Good.-night.”

The woman bit her lower lip.

“Good-night,” she answered dully.

At the corner of the street he turned his head.  The woman was hurrying uneasily; a policeman coming from behind had caught her by the arm.

His heart began to beat.  “Heavens!” he thought, “what shall I do now?” His first impulse was to walk away, and think no more about it—­to act, indeed, like any averagely decent man who did not care to be concerned in such affairs.

He retraced his steps, however, and halted half a dozen paces from their figures.

“Ask the gentleman!  He spoke to me,” she was saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of which Shelton could detect her fear.

“That’s all right,” returned the policeman, “we know all about that.”

“You—­police!” cried the woman tearfully; “I ’ve got to get my living, have n’t I, the same as you?”

Shelton hesitated, then, catching the expression in her frightened face, stepped forward.  The policeman turned, and at the sight of his pale, heavy jowl, cut by the cheek-strap, and the bullying eyes, he felt both hate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despised and loathed, yet strangely dreaded.  The cold certainty of law and order upholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front of meanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facing him.  And the odd thing was, this man was only carrying out his duty.  Shelton moistened his lips.