The rage had faded from Byng’s fevered eyes, and now there was a moisture in them, a look of incalculable relief.  To believe in Jasmine, that was everything to him.  He had not seen her yet, not since he left the white rose on her pillow last night—­Adrian Fellowes’ tribute; and after he had read the letter, he had had no wish to see her till he had had his will and done away with Fellowes forever.  Then he would see her—­for the last time:  and she should die, too,—­with himself.  That had been his purpose.  Now all was changed.  He would not see her now, not till Fellowes was gone forever.  Then he would come again, and say no word which would let her think he knew what Fellowes had written.  Yes, Stafford was right.  She must not know, and they must start again, begin life again together, a new understanding in his heart, new purposes in their existence.  In these few minutes Stafford had taught him much, had showed him where he had been wrong, had revealed to him Jasmine’s nature as he never really understood it.

At the door, as Stafford helped him on with a light overcoat, he took a revolver from his pocket.

“That’s the proof of what I meant to do,” he said; “and this is proof of what I mean to do,” he added, as he handed over the revolver and Stafford’s fingers grasped it with a nervous force which he misinterpreted.

“Ah yes,” he exclaimed, sadly, “you don’t quite trust me yet—­not quite, Stafford; and I don’t wonder; but it’s all right....  You’ve been a good, good friend to us both,” he added.  “I wish Jasmine might know how good a friend you’ve been.  But never mind.  We’ll pay the debt sometime, somehow, she and I. When shall I see you again?”

At that moment a clear voice rang out cheerily in the distance.  “Rudyard—­where are you, Ruddy?” it called.

A light broke over Byng’s haggard face.  “Not yet?” he asked Stafford.

“No, not yet,” was the reply, and Byng was pushed through the open door into the street.

“Ruddy—­where are you, Ruddy?” sang the voice like a morning song.

Then there was silence, save for the music in the room beyond the little room where the two men had sat a few moments ago.

The music was still poured forth, but the tune was changed.  Now it was “Pagliacci”—­that wonderful passage where the injured husband pours out his soul in agony.

Stafford closed the doors of the little room where he and Byng had sat, and stood an instant listening to the music.  He shuddered as the passionate notes swept over his senses.  In this music was the note of the character of the man who played—­sensuous emotion, sensual delight.  There are men who by nature are as the daughters of the night, primary prostitutes, with no minds, no moral sense; only a sensuous organization which has a gift of shallow beauty, while the life is never deep enough for tears nor high enough for real joy.

In Stafford’s pocket was the revolver which Byng had given him.  He took it out, and as he did so, a flush swept over his face, and every nerve of his body tingled.