“Only two hundred and fifty! Couldn’t you give me more? It’s a very good fur—worth two or three thousand francs. I don’t expect that, of course, but—two hundred and fifty’s not enough. I mean, I need four or five . . . I’m afraid I’ve nothing else. I’ld let you have this umbrella, only it’s raining so. Yes, it’s a tortoise-shell top. . . . Couldn’t you make it four hundred, or even five? You see, my ticket’s expensive and. . . . Five hundred with the umbrella? All right. I must let it go. . . . Five hundred. Thanks very much. . . .” It was almost six o’clock when the change took place. Jo stopped talking and began to fight. Of course, she hadn’t a chance: but she fought for an hour, like the Great Heart she always was. Again and again she rallied: time after time she tore Death’s grip away. And I knelt by her side, while the nurses moved to and fro, ministering, whispering words of encouragement, like seconds plying their principal between the rounds. As it was striking seven, Jo opened her great grey eyes. For a moment they wandered over and round the room. Then they fell upon my face. “I got here, then,” she said gently. “I am so awfully glad. I wanted to tell you I loved you and—and other things. . . . Our dream was broken, I know. I broke it, of course. I never knew why. I think that man had some power—I don’t know what. Never mind. I broke our dream. But I’ld like you to know, my darling, it’s the only dream I’ve had. . . . And I’ve kept the broken pieces as one keeps a sacred thing. I’ve worshipped—reverenced them. They’ve been my only star. There isn’t a flinder missing: they’re just as they were that day—sparkling and gay and perfect. . . . Only, they’re pieces, Richard—broken bits and pieces of what was once our dream. . . . Such as they are, I give them back to you. You gave me the dream, and I broke it. But I’ve kept the pieces clean, and—here they are.” “I see no pieces, my sweet. You’ve given me back my dream.” “In pieces, Richard. I broke it.” “And now you’ve mended it, darling. You’ve given me back . . . our dream.” The old wonderful light flung into those peerless eyes. The old exquisite smile came playing into her face. “Oh, Richard,” she whispered, as though I had made her a present she never had dared expect. Then she closed her eyes, but the smile never left her face. And presently, with my cheek against hers, she fell asleep. And that is all, except that I am going to kill Berwick Perowne. V March 11th, 1929 ‘The Office’ gave me two months’ leave—‘for the purpose of attending to private affairs.’ That was on February 25th. Upon the following day I disappeared: and forty-eight hours later I was in touch with Perowne. He had no idea, of course. But I was in touch . . . waiting. . . .