For the first time in my life I heard a woman give abandoned, incoherent utterance to an agony of passion; and it sounded horrible, like the cry of an animal wounded to death.

A guilt-stricken creature, scarce daring to meet her eyes, I bade her farewell.  She had recovered her composure.

“Make me one little promise, Marcus, do me one little favour,” she said, with quivering lip, and letting her cold hand remain in mine.  “Stay away from her to-day.  I couldn’t bear to think of you and her together, happy, love-making, after what I’ve said this morning.  I should writhe with the shame and the torture of it.  Give me your thoughts to-day.  Wear a little mourning for the dead.  It is all I ask of you.”

“I should have done what you ask without the asking,” I replied.

I kissed her hand, and went out into the street.

I had walked but a few blind steps when I became aware of the presence and voice of Pasquale.

“Coming from Mrs. Mainwaring’s?  I am just on my way there to restore her opera-glasses which I ran away with last night.  What’s her number?  I forget.  I dropped in at Lingfield Terrace to inquire, but found you had already started.”

“Seventeen,” I answered, mechanically.

“You are not looking well, my good friend,” said he.  “I hope last night has not upset you.  It’s all bluff, you know, on the part of the precious Hamdi.”

“I dare say it was,” I assented.

“And bluff on your part, too.  I have never given your imaginative faculties sufficient credit.  It bowled Hamdi out clean.”

“Yes,” said I.  “It bowled him out clean.”

“Serve him right,” said Pasquale.  “He’s the wickedest old thief unhung.”

“Quite so,” said I, “the wickedest old thief unhung.”

Pasquale shook me by the arm.

“Are you a man or a phonograph?  What on earth has happened to you?”

I think I envied the laughter in his handsome, dark face, and the careless grace of the fellow as he stood beneath the dripping umbrella debonair as a young prince, in perfectly fitting blue serge-he wore no overcoat; mine was buttoned up to the chinand immaculate suede gloves.

“What is it?” he repeated, gaily.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” said I, “my breakfast disagreed with me, and it’s raining in the most unpleasant manner.”

Even while I was speaking he left my side and darted across the road.  In some astonishment I watched him for a moment from the kerb, and then made my way slowly to the other side.  I found him in conversation with an emaciated, bedraggled woman standing by an enormous bundle, about three times her own cubic bulk, which she had rested on the slimy pavement.  One hand pressed a panting bosom.

“You are going to carry that in your arms all the way to South Kensington?” I heard him cry as I approached.

“Yes, sir,” said the woman.