"Mr. Jackson?--Mr. Jackson?" She shook her head. "Oh yes, of course I do. At Oxford, that night? Whatever put him into your head, of all people?" "Dean Craven, I suppose. Ridiculous association of ideas." "Mr. Jackson--I wonder why such people exist." "So do I. Do you know, I've hated Mr. Jackson with a deadly hatred for the last month." "Why, whatever has he done?" "Nothing. But if it hadn't been for him I should have known you a year ago." The hansom drew up. She sank back into her corner and held out her hand. "I'll say good-bye now. I'm not equal to seeing them, after all. You can tell them you've seen me, and that I meant to call." "Very well. Is he to drive you straight home?" "Yes, please. But tell him to go the longest way round, by Fulham--or anywhere." He said good-bye, got out, and gave the order to the driver. As the hansom turned up Northumberland Avenue, he caught a side view of the pathetic little face through the window. Then she was whirled away from him, towards Fulham--or anywhere. He stood looking after her till the sound of the horse's bells was lost in the roar of Charing Cross. Then he remembered that he had once said she would be "capable of anything." CHAPTER XVIII Hardy left the house five minutes after Audrey and Wyndham. In the doorway of the dining-room he stepped on a small muslin pocket-handkerchief. It was stained here and there with specks of blood. He picked it up, kissed it, and put it in his pocket. For a long time after that he had no clear sense of anything, except, at times, of the misery that made the only difference between being drunk and sober. Yes; Hardy was carrying out the threat he had made to Audrey, with a passionate deliberation. He was "giving his whole mind to it," as he had said. He had been used to speak of the sins of his past life with that exaggeration which was part of his character; they had been slight, considering the extent of his temptation. Then he was, as it were, an amateur in evil. Now he had an object in view--he was sinning for the wages of sin.