‘You will hardly venture on that paradox in the pulpit,’ remarked his companion, with laughter.

’Perhaps not.  But I have heard arguments from that place decidedly more immoral.’

‘No doubt.’

Godwin corrected the impression he perhaps had made by turning with sudden seriousness to another subject.  The ironic temptation was terribly strong in him just now.  One is occasionally possessed by a desire to shout in the midst of a silent assembly; and impulse of the same kind kept urging him to utter words which would irretrievably ruin his prospects.  The sense that life is an intolerable mummery can with difficulty be controlled by certain minds, even when circumstances offer no keen incitement to rebellion.  But Peak’s position to-day demanded an incessant effort to refrain from self-betrayal.  What a joy to declare himself a hypocrite, and snap mocking fingers in the world’s face!  As a safeguard, he fixed his mind upon Sidwell, recalled her features and her voice as clearly as possible, stamped into his heart the conviction that she half loved him.

When he was alone again, he of a sudden determined to go to Exeter.  He could no longer endure uncertainty as to the contents of Marcella’s letter.  As it was too late for the coach, he set off and walked five miles to Exmouth, where he caught a train.

The letter lay on his table, and with it one on which he recognised his mother’s handwriting.

Marcella wrote in the simplest way, quite as if their intercourse had never been disturbed.  As she happened to be staying with friends at Budleigh Salterton, it seemed possible for her to meet him.  Might she hope that he would call at the hotel in Exeter, if she wrote again to make an appointment?

Well, that needed no reply.  But how had she discovered the address?  Was his story known in London?  In a paroxysm of fury, he crushed the letter into a ball and flung it away.  The veins of his forehead swelled; he walked about the room with senseless violence, striking his fist against furniture and walls.  It would have relieved him to sob and cry like a thwarted child, but only a harsh sound, half-groan, half-laughter, burst from his throat.

The fit passed, and he was able to open the letter from Twybridge, the first he had received from his mother for more than a month.  He expected to find nothing of interest, but his attention was soon caught by a passage, which ran thus: 

’Have you heard from some friends of yours, called Ward?  Some time ago a lady called here to ask for your address.  She said her name was Mrs. Ward, and that her husband, who had been abroad for a long time, very much wished to find you again.  Of course I told her where you were to be found.  It was just after I had written, or I should have let you know about it before.’

Ward?  He knew no one of that name.  Could it be Marcella who had done this?  It looked more than likely; he believed her capable of strange proceedings.