‘Who is down there?’ he called.

‘All of us except Ada,’ replied Beatrice.  ’The policeman said she needn’t go unless she liked, but she did like.’

‘Very well.’

He ran up to the deserted bedroom, carefully gathered together his child’s day-garments, and brought them down.  Then, as well as he could, he dressed the boy.

‘Is it time to get up?’ inquired the little three-year-old, astonished at all that was happening, but soothed and amused by the thought that his father had turned nurse.  ‘It isn’t light yet.’

‘You are going somewhere with father, dear.  Somewhere nice.’

The dialogue between them, in sweet broken words such as the child had not yet outgrown, and the parent did not wish to abandon for common speech, went on until the dressing was completed.

’Now, will my boy show me where his clothes are for going out?  His cap, and his coat—­’

Oh yes, they were up in the nursery; boy would show father—­and laughed merrily that he knew something father didn’t.  A few minutes more, and the equipment was completed.

’Now wait for me here—­only a minute.  My boy won’t cry, if I leave him for a minute?’

‘Cry! of course not!’ Peachey descended to the drawing-room, closed the door behind him, and stood facing his sisters-in-law.

’I want to tell you that I am going away, and taking the child with me.  Ada needn’t expect me back to-night—­nor ever.  As long as I live I will never again be under the same roof with her.  You, Beatrice, said it was about time I behaved like a man.  You were right.  I’ve put up long enough with things such as no man ought to endure for a day.  Tell your sister that she may go on living here, if she chooses, for another six months, to the end of the year—­ not longer.  She shall be supplied with sufficient money.  After Christmas she may find a home for herself where she likes; money will be paid to her through a lawyer, but from this day I will neither speak nor write to her.  You two must make your own arrangements; you have means enough.  You know very well, both of you, why I am taking this step; think and say about me what you like.  I have no time to talk, and so I bid you good-bye.’

They did not seek to detain him, but stood mute whilst he left the room.

The little boy, timid and impatient, was at the head of the stairs.  His father enveloped him warmly in a shawl, and so they went forth.  It was not long before they met with a vacant cab.  Half-an-hour’s drive brought them to the eating-house where Peachey had had his chop that evening, and here he obtained a bedroom for the night.

By eleven o’clock the child slept peacefully.  The father, seated at a table, was engaged in writing to a solicitor.

At midnight he lay softly down by the child’s side, and there, until dawn, listened to the low breathing of his innocent little bedfellow.  Though he could not sleep, it was joy, rather than any painful excitement, that kept him wakeful.  A great and loathsome burden had fallen from him, and in the same moment he had rescued his boy out of an atmosphere of hated impurity.  At length he could respect himself, and for the first time in four long years he looked to the future with tranquil hope.