“Soho murder.

“Enquiry late last night established the fact that the Police have discovered the identity of the man found strangled yesterday morning under an archway in Glove Lane.  An arrest has been made.”

By good fortune he had finished eating, for the words made him feel physically sick.  At this very minute Larry might be locked up, waiting to be charged-might even have been arrested before his own visit to the girl last night.  If Larry were arrested, she must be implicated.  What, then, would be his own position?  Idiot to go and look at that archway, to go and see the girl!  Had that policeman really followed him home?  Accessory after the fact!  Keith Darrant, King’s Counsel, man of mark!  He forced himself by an effort, which had something of the heroic, to drop this panicky feeling.  Panic never did good.  He must face it, and see.  He refused even to hurry, calmly collected the papers wanted for the day, and attended to a letter or two, before he set out in a taxi-cab to Fitzroy Street.

Waiting outside there in the grey morning for his ring to be answered, he looked the very picture of a man who knew his mind, a man of resolution.  But it needed all his will-power to ask without tremor:  “Mr. Darrant in?” to hear without sign of any kind the answer:  “He’s not up yet, sir.”

“Never mind; I’ll go in and see him.  Mr. Keith Darrant.”

On his way to Laurence’s bedroom, in the midst of utter relief, he had the self-possession to think:  ’This arrest is the best thing that could have happened.  It’ll keep their noses on a wrong scent till Larry’s got away.  The girl must be sent off too, but not with him.’  Panic had ended in quite hardening his resolution.  He entered the bedroom with a feeling of disgust.  The fellow was lying there, his bare arms crossed behind his tousled head, staring at the ceiling, and smoking one of many cigarettes whose ends littered a chair beside him, whose sickly reek tainted the air.  That pale face, with its jutting cheek-bones and chin, its hollow cheeks and blue eyes far sunk back—­what a wreck of goodness!

He looked up at Keith through the haze of smoke and said quietly:  “Well, brother, what’s the sentence?  ’Transportation for life, and then to be fined forty pounds?’”

The flippancy revolted Keith.  It was Larry all over!  Last night horrified and humble, this morning, “Don’t care” and feather-headed.  He said sourly: 

“Oh!  You can joke about it now?”

Laurence turned his face to the wall.

“Must.”

Fatalism!  How detestable were natures like that!

“I’ve been to see her,” he said.

“You?”

“Last night.  She can be trusted.”

Laurence laughed.

“That I told you.”

“I had to see for myself.  You must clear out at once, Larry.  She can come out to you by the next boat; but you can’t go together.  Have you any money?”