The old woman confessed that she only knew of two meetings, with a very long interval, but she hinted that the first had taken place under circumstances very suspicious; in fact, that it was obviously an appointment.  And this morning, as soon as she knew of Thyrza’s presence in the library (by the borrowing of the hammer), she had kept a secret espial through the key-hole of the inner door, with the result that she witnessed the two chatting together in a way sufficiently noteworthy, considering the difference of their stations.

The matter having been made to bear all the fruit it would in malevolent discussion, Mr. Bower left the old woman at her supper, and with a candle went to explore the state of the library.  He did not remain long, for the big room was very cold, and shortly after rejoining the caretaker he bade her the friendliest good-evening.

‘I consider you’ve done very right to tell me this,’ he said, as she went to let him out.  ’In my opinion it’s something as Grail ought to know.  You keep an eye open to-morrow morning; depend upon it, you’re doing a good work.  I shouldn’t wonder if I look in to-morrow night.  And I dare say you could do with a nice bit of cheese, eh?  I’ll see if I can pick a bit out of the shop.’

On Tuesday night he repeated his visit, bringing half a pound of very strong American in his pocket.  He heard a shocking story.  Thyrza had again been to the library, and so secretly that but for her station at the key-hole Mrs. Butterfield would have known nothing of it.

‘Well, well, now!  Tut—­tut—­tut!’ commented portly Mr. Bower.  ’To think!  You never can trust these young men as have more money than they know what to do with!  But I didn’t think it of Egremont.  That’s the kind of fellow as comes to preach to the working man and tell him of his faults!  Bah!  Well, I’m not one for going about spreading storie.  Grail must take his chance.  Perhaps it ’ud be as well, Mrs. Butterfield, if you kept this little affair quiet—­just between you and me, you know.  There’s no knowing.—­Eh?  A time may come.—­ Eh?  It’s none of our business just now.—­Eh?  You understand, Mrs. Butterfield?  It might be as well to keep an eye open to the end of the week.’

Mr. Bower, on the way home, turned into his club, just to drink a glass of whisky at the club price.  In the reading-room were a few men occupied with newspapers or in chat.  In a corner, reading his favourite organ of ‘free thought,’ sat Luke Ackroyd.

Bower got his glass of spirits, brought it into the reading-room, and sat down by Ackroyd.

‘So our friend Egremont’s begun to get his books together,’ he began.

‘Has he?’

Luke was indifferent.  Of late he had entered upon a new phase of his mental trouble.  He was averse from conversation, shrank from his old companions, seemed to have resumed studious habits.  It had got about that he was going to marry Totty Nancarrow, but he refused to answer questions on the subject.  Banter he met with so grim a countenance that the facetious soon left him to himself.  He no longer drank, that was evident.  But his face was pale, thin, and unwholesome.  One would have said that just now he was more seriously unhappy than he had been throughout his boisterous period.