trace in it of her old alluring, challenging self.  Simplicity—­deep feeling—­sympathy—­in halting words, and unfinished sentences—­and yet something conspicuously absent and to all appearance so easily, unconsciously absent, that all the sweetness and pity brought him more smart than soothing.  Yes, she had done with him—­for all her wish to be kind to him.  He saw it plainly; and he turned back thirstily to those past hours in Lathom Woods, when he had felt himself, if only for a moment, triumphant master of her thoughts, if not her heart; rebelled against, scolded, flouted, yet still tormentingly necessary and important.  All that delicious friction, those disputes that are the forerunner of passion were gone—­forever.  She was sorry for him—­and very kind.  His touchy pride recoiled, reading into her letter what she had never dreamt of putting into it, just because of the absence of that something—­that old tremor—­those old signs of his influence over her, which, of course, she would never let him see again.

All the same he had replied at once, asking if he might come and say good-bye before she left Scarfedale.  And she had sent him a telegram—­“Delighted—­to-morrow—­five o’clock.”

And he was going—­out of a kind of recklessness—­kind of obstinate recoil against the sorrowful or depressing circumstance of life.  He had given up all thoughts of trying to win her back, even if there were any chance of it.  His pride would not let him sue as a pauper; and of course the Langmoors to whom she was going—­he understood—­from Scarfedale, would take good care she did not throw herself away.  Quite right too.  Very likely the Tamworths would capture her; and Bletchley was quite a nice fellow.

When he did see her, what could they talk about?  Radowitz?

He would like to send a message through her to Radowitz—­to say something—­

What could he say?  He had seen Radowitz for a few minutes after the inquest—­to thank him for his evidence—­and for what he had done for Sir Arthur.  Both had hurried through it.  Falloden had seemed to himself stricken with aphasia.  His mouth was dry, his tongue useless.  And Radowitz had been all nerves, a nickering colour—­good God, how deathly he looked!

Afterwards he had begun a letter to Radowitz, and had toiled at it, sometimes at dead of night and in a feverish heat of brain.  But he had never finished or sent it.  What was the use?  Nothing was changed.  That black sling and the damaged hand in it stood for one of those hard facts that no wishing, and no sentimentalising, and no remorse could get over.

“I wish to God I had let him alone!”