And the man came on. The others no longer attempted to hold him back; they only watched to see fair play. But they did not watch long. Charley’s adversary was a little man, but he had the strength of two ordinary men, and, if the poor lad had known it, was the best boxer in the county. He did not know it, but it would not have made any difference. He staggered under the first blow, but dealt a good one in return, and prepared for the second. But the second threw him. There was a laugh, and they looked to see this man, who was so quick to take offence yet was so easily beaten, get up to defend himself. But Charley did not get up. There was a confused murmur that gradually grew to dismay. Those nearest the door went out, and those surrounding the boxer dragged him quickly after them, as the landlady—summoned by the barmaid—came hastily round to the front. She threw a scathing word at the gaping knot of ne’er-do-wells that was left. In a moment the place was cleared of all but one man, who knelt with her beside the prostrate body: it was young Preston. “Shall I fetch the doctor?” he said. “The barmaid’s gone,” answered the woman. She did what she could for him, but she shook her head. Once he opened his eyes, but his mind was gone before. “Is it a boy or a girl, Bess?” he said. And then he murmured—“Bless you—my wife!” It was his last word. When the doctor ran in it was too late; Charley Chiswick was dead. He had struck his head in falling against the iron of the fender; and there was another cause too—a faulty heart. It wouldn’t even be manslaughter at the inquest. But Charley Chiswick was dead. When Jim Preston got home that night he found a letter waiting for him. It was from the Sister-in-charge of a London Hospital, and told him that Bess Benson had died that morning after prematurely giving birth to a son. The girl had asked her to write to him and to beg him to find Charley Chiswick, and tell him that he was a father. After that she had sunk into unconsciousness, and had not known that her babe had passed away before her. Jim Preston stood dazed with the letter in his hand. He remembered how he had offered to serve her that day when he had told her that he should not change, though he would trouble her no more. She had taken him at his word, she had trusted him, unwelcome lover though he had been; yes, she had trusted him—and him only. He was grateful to her. He gazed at the message—the useless message from a dead mother and a dead child to the father who had followed them before it had reached him. Then he put the letter in his breast-pocket and buttoned his coat tightly across it. A BROKEN TRYST A BROKEN TRYST