Rupert found himself standing just inside the gates of the Marble Arch. The roar of traffic echoed dully in his ears; on his left the lights of Oxford Street glared. Facing him was the darkness of the Park, with here and there the red blot of a gas lamp. She had saved him from the crime of self-destruction. With extraordinary clearness pictures rose before his eyes presenting each incident of the last day they had spent together. They passed before him like the pictures projected by a cinematograph. She had not told him of his good fortune until she had found him seated in the chair with a revolver clasped in his hand. Yet she had known his position perfectly well: she had known that with the defeat of the favourite in the big race ruin faced him. Yet she had said nothing until she found him face to face with death. He put his hands up to his face to shut out the pictures which danced before his eyes. He heard himself laugh. The next moment he was striding through the Park trying to escape from his thoughts and from the fear which now permeated his whole being. At Hyde Park Corner he got on to an omnibus. He wanted to get back to his rooms again. He might find something there, some proof, that these fears were groundless. The first thing he did was to light a fire and switch on all the electric lights. He noticed a vase of faded flowers on the bureau. He was about to throw them into the fire when he hesitated. As far as he could remember there were no flowers in the room when he had left. He rang the bell and told the servant he wished to speak to the landlady. The maid gave him a scared look and said she would ask her to step up. Mrs. Jones entered the room noiselessly, and, closing the door, stood with her back to it. She gave Rupert one glance, then stooped down to pick up an imaginary hairpin from the floor. "I’ve returned rather unexpectedly on business," Rupert said, speaking jerkily. "Yes, sir. I hope—there ain’t no serious trouble, sir?" Rupert forced a laugh. "Trouble? Why—by the way, are there any letters for me?" Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after a few moments produced a crumpled envelope which she straightened out and handed to Rupert. "Miss Strode left that for you the day she went away, sir. And she put them flowers in that vase on the bureau. I said as how they wouldn’t live until you came back. But, there, it was her fancy to have them while you were away, and I was to leave them there." Rupert nodded. He turned the envelope over, broke the seal, then changed his mind, and put it into his pocket. "No other letters?" he asked sharply. The landlady looked over the top of his head, and picking up her apron commenced to twist the corners nervously.