of the way with. I’ll pay you back as soon as the mater condescends to send me another cheque....”

Micky’s face felt hot.

“Hasn’t she––hasn’t she got any, then?” he asked with an effort.

“No––at least I promised her some when I saw her this morning. She––she’s left Eldred’s. You see”––he drew a hard breath––“you see, I hoped we’d be able to get married, and so––well, there was no sense in her staying on there. She was worked to death, poor kid.”

He glanced at Micky, but could not see his face.

“You understand, don’t you?” he said, encouraged by his silence. “She owes them a bit at the boarding-house where she is living. I promised to wipe it off for her, but the mater cutting up rough altered everything, and so ... if you could give her a little–––”

“I’ll see to it,” said Micky. He opened the door of the taxi and got out before it was at a standstill. He took off his hat and let the cold air play on his hot forehead. He could hardly trust himself to speak.

He was thankful when Ashton went off to see to his luggage. He walked into the station and found himself aimlessly staring at a notice board. He could not remember when he had felt so furiously angry.

Had Ashton changed? he was asking himself in bewilderment. Or was it merely that he had never seen the man he really was until to-night?

He tried to remember what Ashton had told him about Esther Shepstone in the past. That she had been at Eldred’s he knew, and that Eldred’s was a place where women bought silk petticoats and things he also knew. He had heard Marie Deland and her friends talking about it lots of times. Marie had once invited him to accompany her there when they had been out together, but he had refused and had waited outside for her. Now he came to think of it, that was about all Ashton had ever told him of Esther Shepstone.

He knew that Ashton had been seen about with her a great deal; knew that he had had to stand a lot of harmless chaff in consequence; he himself had joked about Ashton’s “latest” as they had all called her: it seemed a memory to be ashamed of, when he thought of the way he had heard her sobbing in the street that night, of the distress in her eyes, of the hopeless way in which she had spoken.

Ashton rejoined him.

“Buck up! The train’s in.”

They went along the platform, followed by a porter with Ashton’s baggage. Micky looked at it resentfully; 22 Ashton was evidently prepared to enjoy himself; this was no rush after mere solitude and forgetfulness.

He stood stiffly at the carriage door while Ashton stowed his smaller traps on the rack. Presently he came to the window.

“You’ll do the best you can, won’t you, old man?” There was a real anxiety in his eyes, but Micky was not looking at him; he answered stiffly––

“Yes, I’ll do what I can.”

“She’ll soon get another job,” Ashton went on, with forced confidence. “I’m sorry she left Eldred’s, now it’s come to this, but how was I to know?” he appealed to Micky, but he might as well have appealed to a brick wall for all response he got.

“And when I come back–––” he said again. “Tell her that when I come back many things may be all right again ... tell her that, will you?”

“I’ll tell her,” said Micky stolidly.

The guard was blowing his whistle now, doors were being shut.

Micky roused himself and looked at his friend.

“Are you––er––are you going to write to her?” he asked constrainedly.

Ashton coloured.

“No––it’s better not––far better let the thing drop till I come back. I’ve explained it all in my letter––she’ll understand. It’s no use writing––don’t you think it’s better not–––”

Micky hunched his shoulders.

“It’s your affair,” he said laconically.

“Yes, well, I shan’t write––I’ll send you my address as soon as I know where I’m staying, and you can let me know what she said and how she takes it.... Oh, confound it!”

A porter had come along and slammed the door; the train was slowly moving; Micky was vaguely glad that there had been no time in which to shake hands. A 23 moment, and he was walking away alone down the platform.

His hands were deep thrust in the pockets of his coat; he took no notice of anything; he walked on and out of the station.

Well, this had been an eventful New Year’s Eve with a vengeance; he glanced up at the clock in the dome behind him––only a quarter to twelve now, and yet so much had been crowded into the past four hours. Since the moment when the Delands rang up to cancel his engagement to dine he seemed to have stepped out of the old world into a new. He wondered what Esther Shepstone was doing in the very horrid boarding-house of which she had told him––if she was thinking of Ashton.

What a cad the man was, what a cad!––he was amazed that he had not discovered it before––to clear off and leave a girl like this, without a word of farewell except the letter. He wondered if he meant to deliver it and admit that he knew Ashton, or if he meant just to stick a stamp on and post it to her.

He realised that there was nothing very much to be proud of in an admission that he knew Ashton, and yet they had been friends for years.

It was striking twelve when he got home; he stood for a moment on the doorstep, looking up at the starry sky.

Several clocks were chiming midnight in the distance; he listened with a queer sense of fatalism.

This was the strangest New Year’s Eve he had ever spent in his life. At this hour last year he had been dancing the old year out, and to-night, had things gone as he had thought, he would have been somewhere with Marie Deland––he might even have proposed to her by this time. He smiled faintly, remembering that the intention had really been somewhere in the background of his mind; but that, too, had faded out now to give place to other, more important, factors.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve! He counted the strokes 24 mechanically; there was a breathless pause, then the clash of bells.

Some irrepressibles in a block of flats near by raised a cheer; the front door of a house opposite was open, and Micky caught a glimpse of a crowded hall and black-coated men and girls in pretty frocks.

He felt strangely removed from all the noise and laughter; after a moment he turned and went up to his room.

The fire had been carefully made up and his slippers and dressing-gown put to warm. Micky looked at them with a sort of disgust; it was sickening for a healthy grown man to be so pampered; he kicked the slippers into a corner and tossed the dressing-gown on to the couch.

He wondered what sort of a room Esther Shepstone had in the very horrid boarding-house––what odd corner the thin black cat curled into to sleep.

He took Ashton’s letter from his pocket and stuck it up against the clock on the mantelshelf.

“Miss Esther Shepstone....”

It was fate, that’s what it was! He wondered if she would ever have lived to get that letter had fate not thrown her across his path that night.

She had been desperate––at the end of her tether, and all for the sake of that cad Ashton.

He turned his back on the letter and lit a cigarette, but he let it go out almost at once, and turned back again to stare once more at the name scrawled on the envelope.

What had Ashton written to her? It worried him because he did not know. Ashton had had other love-affairs––not quite such serious ones, perhaps, but still serious enough––and Micky knew that when he had wearied of them he had set about getting free of them by