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Men of decided character little know beforehand what they will do in certain contingencies. For the imaginations of decided people do not endow mere contingencies with sufficient actuality. Keith had never really settled what he was going to do if this man were condemned. Often in those past weeks he had said to himself: “Of course, if they bring him in guilty, that’s another thing!” But, now that they had, he was beset by exactly the same old arguments and feelings, the same instincts of loyalty and protection towards Laurence and himself, intensified by the fearful imminence of the danger. And yet, here was this man about to be hung for a thing he had not done! Nothing could get over that! But then he was such a worthless vagabond, a ghoul who had robbed a dead body. If Larry were condemned in his stead, would there be any less miscarriage of justice? To strangle a brute who had struck you, by the accident of keeping your hands on his throat a few seconds too long, was there any more guilt in that–was there even as much, as in deliberate theft from a dead man? Reverence for order, for justice, and established fact, will, often march shoulder to shoulder with Jesuitry in natures to whom success is vital.

In the narrow stone passage leading to his staircase, a friend had called out: “Bravo, Darrant! That was a squeak! Congratulations!” And with a bitter little smile Keith thought: ‘Congratulations! I!’

At the first possible moment the hurried back to the Strand, and hailing a cab, he told the man to put him down at a turning near to Borrow Street.

It was the girl who opened to his knock. Startled, clasping her hands, she looked strange to Keith in her black skirt and blouse of some soft velvety stuff the colour of faded roses. Her round, rather long throat was bare; and Keith noticed fretfully that she wore gold earrings. Her eyes, so pitch dark against her white face, and the short fair hair, which curled into her neck, seemed both to search and to plead.

“My brother?”

“He is not in, sir, yet.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“He is living with you here now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still as fond of him as ever, then?”

With a movement, as though she despaired of words, she clasped her hands over her heart. And he said:

“I see.”

He had the same strange feeling as on his first visit to her, and when through the chink in the curtains he had watched her kneeling–of pity mingled with some faint sexual emotion. And crossing to the fire he asked:

“May I wait for him?”

“Oh! Please! Will you sit down?”

But Keith shook his head. And with a catch in her breath, she said:

“You will not take him from me. I should die.”

He turned round on her sharply.

“I don’t want him taken from you. I want to help you keep him. Are you ready to go away, at any time?”

“Yes. Oh, yes!”

“And he?”

She answered almost in a whisper:

“Yes; but there is that poor man.”

“That poor man is a graveyard thief; a hyena; a ghoul–not worth consideration.” And the rasp in his own voice surprised him.

“Ah!” she sighed. “But I am sorry for him. Perhaps he was hungry. I have been hungry–you do things then that you would not. And perhaps he has no one to love; if you have no one to love you can be very bad. I think of him often–in prison.”

Between his teeth Keith muttered: “And Laurence?”

“We do never speak of it, we are afraid.”

“He’s not told you, then, about the trial?”

Her eyes dilated.

“The trial! Oh! He was strange last night. This morning, too, he got up early. Is it-is it over?”

“Yes.”

“What has come?”

“Guilty.”

For a moment Keith thought she was going to faint. She had closed her eyes, and swayed so that he took a step, and put his hands on her arms.