He had wished so often in the past for a home of his own, where he could gather round him young faces and lose himself in promoting the interests of those for whom he had become forever responsible.  He had longed for the Englishman’s castle, for his own little realm of interest where he could be supreme; and now it was never to be.

The idea gained in sacred importance as it receded forever from all possibility.  In far-off days it had been associated with a vision in blue, with a face like a dresden-china shepherdess and hair like Aphrodite’s.  Laughter and wit and raillery had been part of the picture; and long evenings in the winter-time, when they two would read the books they both loved, and maybe talk awhile of world events in which his work had place; in which his gifts were found, shaping, influencing, producing.  The garden, the orchard—­he loved orchards—­the hedges of flowering ivy and lilacs; and the fine grey and chestnut horses driven by his hand or hers through country lanes; the smell of the fallen leaves in the autumn evenings; or the sting of the bracing January wind across the moors or where the woodcock awaited its spoiler.  All these had been in the vision.  It was all over now.  He had seen an image, it had vanished, and he was in the desert alone.

A band was playing “The Banks o’ Garry Owen,” and the tramp of marching men came to his ears.  The crowd surged round him, pushed him, forced him forward, carried him on, till the marching men came near, were alongside of him—­a battalion of Volunteers, going to the war to see “Kruger’s farmers bite the dust!”—­a six months’ excursion, as they thought.  Then the crowd, as it cheered jostled him against the wall of the shops, and presently he found himself forced down Buckingham Street.  It was where he wished to go in order to reach Adrian Fellowes’ apartments.  He did not notice, as he was practically thrown into the street, that Krool was almost beside him.

The street was not well lighted, and he looked neither to right nor left.  He was thinking hard of what he would say to Adrian Fellowes, if, and when, he saw him.

But not far behind him was a figure that stole along in the darker shadows of the houses, keeping at some distance.  The same figure followed him furtively till he came into that part of the Embankment where Adrian Fellowes’ chambers were; then it fell behind a little, for here the lights were brighter.  It hung in the shadow of a door-way and watched him as he approached the door of the big building where Adrian Fellowes lived.

Presently, as he came nearer, Stafford saw a hansom standing before the door.  Something made him pause for a moment, and when, in the pause, the figure of a woman emerged from the entrance and hastily got into the hansom, he drew back into the darkness of a doorway, as the man did who was now shadowing him; and he waited till it turned round and rolled swiftly away.  Then he moved forward again.  When not