comfort:  he could not have prevented himself from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been astonished at his weakness.  He would despise him, and perhaps be shocked or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making Mildred his mistress after she had given herself to another man.  What did he care if it was shocking or disgusting?  He was ready for any compromise, prepared for more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his desire.

Towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in which she lived, and he looked up at her window.  It was dark.  He did not venture to ask if she was back.  He was confident in her promise.  But there was no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called, the maid told him she had not arrived.  He could not understand it.  He knew that Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he was to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had no money.  He turned over in his mind every possible thing that might have happened.  He went again in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening as calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened.  He mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping against hope kept the appointment:  though he waited for an hour she did not come.  On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent a messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but in an hour the boy came back with Philip’s letter unopened and the answer that the lady had not returned from the country.  Philip was beside himself.  The last deception was more than he could bear.  He repeated to himself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to Griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what was the delight of murder:  he walked about considering what a joy it would be to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat, just about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a dog.  Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage.  He did not like whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself.  He went to bed drunk on the Tuesday and on the Wednesday night.

On Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters.  A curious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting of Griffiths.

Dear old man: 

I hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write.  I hope you’re not awfully angry with me.  I know I oughtn’t to have gone away with Milly, but I simply couldn’t help myself.  She simply carried me off my feet and I would have done anything to get her.  When she told me you had offered us the money to go I simply couldn’t resist.  And now it’s all over I’m awfully ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn’t been such a fool.  I wish you’d