‘What am I to do, then?’ he asked with more humility in his manner than he had yet displayed. ‘What I have told you. Wait as patiently as you can till the morning. Be here at eight o’clock, and I promise to have everything explained to your satisfaction without causing the girl annoyance.’ ‘It’s kind of you to think of that, sir.’ ‘Show your gratitude by doing what I tell you. Go back the way you came; if you mounted by a ladder, return it to its proper place; and when you come in the morning bring Culver with you.’ ‘I can’t speak to him about it until I know she is safe.’ ‘There is no need. You have only got to say he is wanted here. It is better you should take the message than one of the servants. The less gossip we have the more likely the girl is to escape scandal. Good-night.’ ‘Good-night, and ... thank you kindly.’ The Agitator had never imagined that there would come a day when he should be compelled to speak such words of gratitude to the owner of Ringsford. He obeyed his commands slowly but faithfully: all sense of humiliation was stifled by the knowledge that whatever might be the upshot of the meeting in the morning, the advice given him was sound, and that in adopting it, he was rendering the best service to Pansy. Mr Hadleigh knew that he had conquered the man, and did not think it necessary even to look at him as he parted the heavy hangings and stepped out on to the balcony. A few minutes after the window had closed, however, he bolted it. That operation had been forgotten by himself during the evening, and had not been performed by the servant, who had instructions on no account to enter the library unless the bell rang. Resuming his seat at the desk, Mr Hadleigh completed the task in which he had been so unpleasantly interrupted. He sealed the two envelopes, and placed them in the drawer of the safe, which he locked. ‘I have done with these things now,’ was his mental observation, and yet he lingered over the words, as if reluctant to pledge himself that he should not again look at those records of a sad life. With more firmness he said presently: ‘I shall not look at them again.’ He drew a curtain aside and looked out. The moon was shining dimly through a haze; the white space before him looked like ghostland, and it was peopled for him by ghosts of blunders in the past and of hopes disappointed or relinquished as unattainable. If we could live our lives over again! What use?—unless we could start with the bitter experience which inspires the wish. Then how steadily we might steer through the shoals of folly, passion, and falsehood. In that still ghostland on which he was gazing, there rose a new phantom offering comfort. ‘I will find my happiness in fostering theirs,’ he said, as he turned from the window, and with hands clasped behind him, head bowed, began to walk up and down the room.