They went at once to the post-office, Felix composing this message on the way:  ’Utterly mistaken chivalry you have no right await our arrival Felix Freeland.’  He handed it to her to read, and passed it under the brass railing to the clerk, not without the feeling of shame due from one who uses the word chivalry in a post-office.

On the way to the Tube station he held her arm tightly, but whether to impart courage or receive it he could not have said, so strung-up in spirit did he feel her.  With few words exchanged they reached Whitehall.  Marking their card ‘Urgent,’ they were received within ten minutes.

John was standing in a high, white room, smelling a little of papers and tobacco, and garnished solely by five green chairs, a table, and a bureau with an immense number of pigeonholes, whereat he had obviously been seated.  Quick to observe what concerned his little daughter, Felix noted how her greeting trembled up at her uncle and how a sort of warmth thawed for the moment the regularity of his brother’s face.  When they had taken two of the five green chairs and John was back at his bureau, Felix handed over the letter.  John read it and looked at Nedda.  Then taking a pipe out of his pocket, which he had evidently filled before they came in, he lighted it and re-read the letter.  Then, looking very straight at Nedda, he said: 

“Nothing in it?  Honour bright, my dear!”

“No, Uncle John, nothing.  Only that he fancies his talk about injustice put it into Tryst’s head.”

John nodded; the girl’s face was evidence enough for him.

“Any proof?”

“Tryst himself told me in the prison that he did it.  He said it came on him suddenly, when he saw the straw.”

A pause followed before John said: 

“Good!  You and I and your father will go down and see the police.”

Nedda lifted her hands and said breathlessly: 

“But, Uncle!  Dad!  Have I the right?  He says—­honour.  Won’t it be betraying him?”

Felix could not answer, but with relief he heard John say: 

“It’s not honorable to cheat the law.”

“No; but he trusted me or he wouldn’t have written.”

John answered slowly: 

“I think your duty’s plain, my dear.  The question for the police will be whether or not to take notice of this false confession.  For us to keep the knowledge that it’s false from them, under the circumstances, is clearly not right.  Besides being, to my mind, foolish.”

For Felix to watch this mortal conflict going on in the soul of his daughter—­that soul which used to seem, perhaps even now seemed, part of himself; to know that she so desperately wanted help for her decision, and to be unable to give it, unable even to trust himself to be honest—­this was hard for Felix.  There she sat, staring before her; and only her tight-clasped hands, the little movements of her lips and throat, showed the struggle going on in her.