“One thing only kept me from it.  I remembered that I was in your debt, and I felt it would be too cowardly.”

“What has happened?—­Come and sit near the window; no one could hear us talking here.  I have been expecting to read of your election.  Is it something to do with Lady Ogram’s death?  I have wanted so much to know about that, and how it affected you.”

A few questions gave Dyce the comfortable assurance that Iris had not seen Mrs. Toplady for a long time.  Trouble with servants, she said, coming after a slight illness, had decided her to quit her house for the rest of the summer, and the Barkers persuaded her to come to Gorleston.  When Leonard left school for his holidays, she meant to go with him to some nice place.

“But do tell me what you mean by those dreadful words?  And why have you come to see me?”

She was her old self, the Iris Woolstan on whom first of all Lashmar had tried his “method,” who had so devoutly believed in him and given such substantial proof of her faith.  The man felt his power, and began to recover self-respect.

“Tell me one thing,” he said, bending towards her.  “May I remain your debtor for a little longer?  Will it put you to inconvenience?”

“Not at all!” was the impulsive reply.  “I told you I didn’t want the money.  I have more than six hundred pounds a year, and never spend quite all of it.”

Lashmar durst not raise his eyes lest a gleam of joy should betray him.  He knew now what he had so long desired to know.  Six hundred a year; it was enough.

“You are very kind.  That relieves me.  For two or three days I have been in despair.  Yes, you shall hear all about it.  I owe you the whole truth, for no one ever understood me as you did, and no one ever gave me such help—­of every kind.  First of all, about my engagement to Miss Bride.  It’s at an end.  But more than that it wasn’t a real engagement at all.  We tried to play a comedy, and the end has been tragic.”

Iris drew a deep breath of wonder.  Her little lips were parted, her little eyebrows made a high arch; she had the face of a child who listens to a strange and half terrifying story.

“Don’t you see how it was?” he exclaimed, in a subdued voice of melodious sadness.  “Lady Ogram discovered that her niece—­you remember May Tomalin? thought rather too well of me.  This did not suit her views; she had planned a marriage between May and Lord Dymchurch.  You know what her temper was.  One day she gave me the choice:  either I married Constance Bride, or I never entered her house again.  Imagine my position.  Think of me, with my ambitions, my pride, and the debt I had incurred to you.  Can you blame me much if, seeing that Lady Ogram’s life might end any day, I met her tyranny by stratagem.  How I longed to tell you the truth!  But I felt bound in honour to silence.  Constance Bride, my friend and never anything more, agreed to the pretence of an engagement.  Wasn’t it brave of her?  And so things went on, until the day when Dymchurch came down to Rivenoak, and proposed to May.  The silly girl refused him.  There was a terrible scene, such as I hope never to behold again.  May was driven forth from the house, and Lady Ogram, just as she was bidding me take steps for my immediate marriage, fell to the ground unconscious—­dying.”