“I want to speak to you about Leonard.  Shall you be at home this evening?”

Iris gave him a startled look.

“You haven’t bad news of Len?”

“Oh no; nothing of the kind.”

“Can you call at six o’clock?”

He looked into her eyes, and nodded.

“What do you say to a boat, Mrs. Woolstan?” shouted Barker the son.

This suggestion was acclaimed, and Lashmar was urged to join the party, but he gladly seized this chance of escape.  Wandering along the grassy edge of the cliffs, he presently descried the Barkers and their friend putting forth in two little boats.  The sight exasperated him.  He strode gloomily on, ever and again turning his head to watch the boats, and struggling against the fears that once more assailed him.

In a hollow of dry sand, where the cliffs broke, he flung himself down, and lay still for an hour or two.  Below him, on the edge of the tide, children were playing; he watched them sullenly.  Lashmar disliked children; the sound of their voices was disagreeable to him.  He wondered whether he would ever have children of his own, and heartily hoped not.

Six o’clock seemed very long in coming.  But at length he found himself at Sunrise Terrace again, and was admitted to an ordinary lodging-house parlour, where, with tea on the table, Mrs. Woolstan awaited him.  The sea air had evidently done her good; she looked younger and prettier than when Dyce last saw her, and the tea-gown she wore became her well.

“How did you know where I was?” she began by asking, rather distantly.

Lashmar told her in detail.

“But why were you so anxious to se me?—­Sugar, I think?”

“It’s a long story,” he replied, looking t her from under his eyebrows, “and I don’t much care or telling it in a place like’ this, where all we say can be heard by anyone on the other side of the door.”

Iris was watching his countenance.  The cold politeness with which she had received him had become a very transparent mask; beneath it showed eager curiosity and trembling hope.

“We can go out, if you like,” she said.

“And most likely meet those singular friends of yours.  Who on earth are they?”

“Very nice people,” replied Mrs. Woolstan, holding up her head.

“They are intolerably vulgar, and you must be aware of it.  I felt ashamed to see you among them.  What are you doing at a place like this?  Why have you shut up your house?”

“Really,” exclaimed Iris, with a flutter, “that is my business.”

Lashmar’s nervous irritation was at once subdued.  He looked timidly at the indignant face, let his eyes fall, and murmured an apology.

“I’ve been going through strange things, and I’m not quite master of myself.  The night before last”—­his voice sunk to a hollow note—­ “I very nearly took poison.”

“What do you mean?  Poison?”

Mrs. Woolstan’s eyes widened in horror.  Lashmar regarded her with a smile of intense melancholy.