He tried to buoy himself up with this idea. He thought of May's tenderness; her devotion, and remembered how she had told him hers was "the love that can not change." The test had come; the bitter test she had never dreamed of, and he had to face the most painful ordeal of his life. All too soon it seemed to him he saw the smoke of the great city; all too soon he was speeding through tunnels, and being carried rapidly over housetops. Then came the rush and hurry of a great terminus. John Temple had reached his destination, and as he entered a cab and told the driver to convey him to Miss Webster's house in Pembridge Terrace, it was with a sinking heart and faltering tongue. In the meanwhile at Pembridge Terrace everything seemed as quiet and peaceable as usual. Yet there was secret anxiety in the hearts of the two kind women of the house. For there had been something in their nephew's manner during his visits of late that had certainly alarmed them. Ralph Webster had in truth been so restless, so unlike himself, that they could not understand him. He was indeed in a state of mind most unusual to his strong and determined nature, for he knew not how to act. His duty and sense of right urged him one way he told himself, and then, when he looked on May's sweet, happy face he felt it almost impossible for him to be the one who could strike her so dire a blow. But of one thing he had no doubt, which was the certainty of John Temple's early marriage to Kathleen Weir. He had even gone to the city church she had named and examined the register of the ill-suited marriage which had ended so disastrously. He had seen Kathleen Weir since his interview with Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, but he had not told her that Mr. Harrison knew of the identity of the John Temple who had married her, and paid her a yearly allowance, and the John Temple who had become the heir of the Woodlea property through the death of his young cousin. He had left this point in doubt purposely, thinking it might hasten the catastrophe if it were known for the unhappy girl who in his eyes had been so shamefully deceived. But the actress seemed determined to learn the truth. "Very likely the old fox is keeping it back," she said; "he would be sure I should want more money if I knew, and Dereham was so positive about the matter. What do you think it would be best for me to do? To write to Mr. Harrison himself, or send a letter to John Temple through him; for, of course, he knows his address?" "I should do nothing immediately, I think," answered Ralph Webster, and the handsome actress looked at him and wondered what was his motive as he spoke. "I don't want to see him, mind," she continued; "to see him now would be as disagreeable to me as no doubt to him; it's a mere matter of money, nothing more."