George turned.
“Yes; what do you want?”
The man put into George's hand a long envelope.
“From Messrs. Frost and Tuckett.”
George opened it, and read from the top of a slip of paper:
“'ADMIRALTY, PROBATE, AND DIVORCE. The humble petition of Jaspar Bellew——'”
He lifted his eyes, and his look, uncannily impassive, unresenting, unangered, dogged, caused the messenger to drop his gaze as though he had hit a man who was down.
“Thanks. Good-night!”
He shut the door, and read the document through. It contained some precise details, and ended in a claim for damages, and George smiled.
Had he received this document three months ago, he would not have taken it thus. Three months ago he would have felt with rage that he was caught. His thoughts would have run thus 'I have got her into a mess; I have got myself into a mess. I never thought this would happen. This is the devil! I must see someone— I must stop it. There must be a way out.' Having but little imagination, his thoughts would have beaten their wings against this cage, and at once he would have tried to act. But this was not three months ago, and now——