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A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on her hat without replying, and turned to go.

At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did so she met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had so often seen him look three years before in Dunsterville–humbly, appealingly, hungrily.

He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were on the door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside.

She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed so thoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness and awkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, his manner–everything had pointed to that. And now–it was as if those three years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were–herself.

Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her like some physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her. If only she could get away from them and think quietly–

And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy.

‘Glad you could come,’ he said. ‘I’ve something I want to talk to you about. It’ll be quiet at Stephano’s.’

She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He was unwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think.

He gave the waiter an order, and became silent again, drumming with his fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over and the coffee was on the table. Then he leant forward.

‘Mary,’ he said, ‘we’ve always been pretty good friends, haven’t we?’

His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in them that was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that there was effort behind the smile.

‘Of course we have, Eddy,’ she said. He touched her hand.

‘Dear little Mary!’ he said, softly.

He paused for a moment.

‘Mary,’ he went on, ‘you would like to do me a good turn? You would, wouldn’t you, Mary?’

‘Why, Eddy, of course!’

He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated on her. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidence of friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality,–of calculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in her some watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard.

He drew in a quick breath.

‘It’s nothing much. Nothing at all. It’s only this. I–I–Joe will be writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday–Thursday remember. There won’t be anything in it–nothing of importance–nothing private–but–I–I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A–a copy of–‘

She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ he said, irritably, ‘don’t look like that. I’m not asking you to commit murder. What’s the matter with you? Look here, Mary; you’ll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I’m the only man in New York that’s ever done anything for you. Didn’t I get you your job? Well, then, it’s not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous, or difficult, or–‘

She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not look at her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.

‘Look here,’ he said; ‘I’ll be square with you. You’re in New York to make money. Well, you aren’t going to make it hammering a typewriter. I’m giving you your chance. I’m going to be square with you. Let me see that letter, and–‘

His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. He smiled, and this time the effort was obvious.

‘Halloa, Joe!’ he said.

Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large and wholesome and restful.

‘I don’t want to intrude,’ he said; ‘but I wanted to see you, Eddy, and I thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Weston yesterday–after I got home from the office–and one to you; and somehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn’t matter much, because they both said the same thing.’