less in proportion as he felt that the ground was growing firmer under his feet.  Even when he wrote the letter to the prison, promising to meet Ida, he had acted as if out of mere humanity.  It needed a chance such as the present to open his eyes.  That she should quit the prison, and, not finding him, wander away in blank misery and hopelessness, most likely embittered by the thought that he had carelessly neglected to meet her, and so driven to despair—­such a possibility was intolerable.  The fear of it began to goad him in flesh and spirit.  With a sudden violent stringing of all his sinews, he wrenched at the bonds, but only with the effect of exhausting himself and making the walls and ceiling reel before his eyes.  The attempt to utter cries resulted in nothing but muffled moaning.  Then, mastering himself once more, he resolved to be patient.  Slimy would not fail him.

He tried not to think of Ida in any way, but this was beyond his power.  Again and again she came before his mind.  When he endeavoured to supplant her by the image of Maud Enderby, the latter’s face only irritated him.  Till now, it had been just the reverse; the thought of Maud had always brought quietness; Ida he had recognised as the disturbing element of his life, and had learned to associate her with his least noble instincts.  Thinking of this now, he began to marvel how it could have been so.  Was it true that Maud was his good angel, that in her he had found his ideal?  He had forced himself to believe this, now that he was in honour bound to her; yet she had never made his pulse quicken, as it had often done when he had approached Ida.  True, that warmth of feeling had come to represent merely a temptation to him; but was not that the consequence of his own ambiguous attitude?  Suppose he had not known Maud Enderby, how would he then have regarded Ida, and his relations to her?  Were these in very deed founded on nothing but selfish feeling?  Then he reviewed all his acquaintanceship with her from the first, and every detail of the story grew to a new aspect.

Thinking of Ida, he found himself wondering how it was that Mr. Woodstock appeared to take so much interest in her fate.  Several times during the past six months the old man had referred to her, generally inquiring whether Waymark had written to or heard from her.  And, only two days ago, he had shown that he remembered the exact date of her release, in asking whether Waymark meant to do anything.  Waymark replying that he intended to meet her, and give her what assistance he could, the old gentleman had signified his strong approval, and had even gone on to mention a house in the neighbourhood of the office, where Ida could be lodged at first.  A room had accordingly been secured beforehand, and it was arranged that Waymark should take her directly thither on the Tuesday morning.  In reviewing all this, Waymark found it more significant than he had imagined.  Why, he wondered, had Mr. Woodstock grown so philanthrophic all at once?  Why had he been so particular in making sure that Waymark would meet the girl?  Indeed, from the very beginning of this affair, he had behaved with regard to it in a manner quite unlike himself.  Waymark had leisure now to ponder these things, but could only conjecture explanations.