and stones and logs of wood; I saw one poor chap with the side of his face cut clean open.  It does one good, a real stirring-up like that; I feel better to-day than for the last month.  And the swearing that went on!  It’s a long time since I heard such downright, hearty, solid swearing.  There was one chap I kept near, and he swore for a full hour without stopping, except when he had a bottle at his mouth; he only stopped when he was speechless with liquor.’

‘I wish I’d been there,’ said Miss.  French gaily.  ’It must have been no end of fun.’

’A right down good spree.  And it wasn’t over till about eight o’clock.  I stayed till the police had cleared the grounds, and then came home, laughing all the way.  It did me good, I tell you!’

‘Well, shall we go and see the lawyer?’ suggested Beatrice.

’Right you are.—­Have a drink first?  Nice quiet place round in Fleet Street—­glass of wine.  No?  As you please, old chum.—­Think this shop ’ll do, don’t you?  You must come round when it’s finished.  But I daresay you’ll be here many a time—­on biz.’

‘Oh, I daresay.’

And as they went down the stairs, Crewe laughed again at his recollections of yesterday’s sport.

CHAPTER 6

Gusts of an October evening swept about the square of the old Inn, and made rushes at the windows; all the more cosy seemed it here in Tarrant’s room, where a big fire, fed into smokeless placidity, purred and crackled.  Pipe in mouth, Tarrant lay back in his big chair, gracefully indolent as ever.  Opposite him, lamp-light illuminating her face on one side, and fire-gloom on the other, Nancy turned over an illustrated volume, her husband’s gift today.  Many were the presents he had bestowed upon her, costly some of them, all flattering the recipient by a presumption of taste and intelligence.

She had been here since early in the afternoon, it was now near seven o’clock.

Nancy looked at the pictures, but inattentively, her brows slightly knitted, and her lips often on the point of speech that concerned some other matter.  Since the summer holiday she had grown a trifle thinner in face; her beauty was no longer allied with perfect health; a heaviness appeared on her eyelids.  Of course she wore the garb of mourning, and its effect was to emphasise the maturing change manifest in her features.

For several minutes there had passed no word; but Tarrant’s face, no less than his companion’s, signalled discussion in suspense.  No unfriendly discussion, yet one that excited emotional activity in both of them.  The young man, his pipe-hand falling to his knee, first broke silence.