He stuffed the notes into his pocket-book. He put on his hat. He went across the road to the pier. He had a problem to solve. Who had chosen so curious a method of sending him so princely a gift? He was prepared to stake his little all--that was left--that it was none of his relations. If the donor was one of his "friends," how basely had he libelled the large and miscellaneous circle of his acquaintances! And yet, a stranger? It would needs be an eccentric stranger who would send an anonymous gift of £10,000 to an unknown person, to enable that unknown person to pay his bets. This thing might have happened in the days of the fairies, but surely the wee folk are gone! "Would--would you lend me your arm? I--I am afraid I have hurt my foot." Mr Coventry was standing at the head of the flight of steps which led to the landing-stage. The Worthing boat was just gone. There was a crowd of people to see it start. Although he was one of them, Mr Coventry had not the faintest appreciation of what the small excitement was about. The sound of a voice apparently addressing him recalled him to himself. He looked down. On the step immediately beneath him was a little woman dressed in black. "I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?" "Would you help me to a seat? I have twisted my ankle." The little woman was young. Her big brown eyes seemed to Mr Coventry as though they were filled with tears. She was leaning against the rail. She seemed in pain. "Let me carry you to a seat." Then, before all the people, in that impetuous way of his, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to a seat. She said nothing when he placed her there. Perhaps she was too surprised at his method of proceeding to be able to find, at an instant's notice, appropriate words to fit the occasion. "I'll fetch you a bath-chair." He fetched her one with a rapidity which did credit to his agility and to the chairman's. The little woman was placed within it. She murmured an address in the Steyne. The procession started. Mr Coventry walked beside the chair. He asked if her foot was better. She said it was. He asked if she was sure it was. She smiled, a little faintly, but still she smiled; she said that she was sure. The Steyne was reached. He saw her enter the house. He raised his hat. He walked away. It was only when he had gone some little distance that a thought occurred to him. "I ought to have asked her her name." He hesitated for a moment as to whether he would not go back and supply the omission; but he perceived, on reflection, that this would be absurd. He told himself that he would call, perhaps that afternoon, and inquire how her foot went on.