"I paid the agent. I knew nothing of you until Herbert announced that he'd made your acquaintance—"
"Pray go on," said I, watching her troubled eyes. "It would be interesting to hear how he described me."
"He used a very funny word. He said you were the rummiest thing in platers he'd struck for a long while. But, of course, he was talking of the other man."
"Of course," said I gravely: whereupon our eyes met, and we both laughed.
"Ah, but you are kind!" she cried. "And when I think how we have treated you—if only I could think—" Her hand went up again to her forehead.
"It will need some reparation," said I. "But we'll discuss that when I come back."
"Was—was Herbert very bad?" She attempted to laugh, but tears suddenly brimmed her eyes.
"I scarcely noticed," said I; and, picking up my hat, went out hurriedly.
V.
Trewlove in his Marlborough Street cell was a disgusting object— offensive to the eye and to one's sense of the dignity of man. At sight of me he sprawled, and when the shock of it was over he continued to grovel until the sight bred a shame in me for being the cause of it. What made it ten times worse was his curious insensibility—even while he grovelled—to the moral aspect of his behaviour.