Still, the suggestion had acted as a stimulus. When he entered his room, he did not feel so broken and purposeless as when he had left it. The intellectual effort he had made whilst walking home in scheming out an experimental chapter had broken the spell of morbid introspection. As soon as he had lit the gas, he drew out writing materials, and, sitting before his dressing-table, began the scene of slaughter he had arranged. At the end of a couple of hours he found he had written two slips of one hundred and fifty words each. He regarded them ruefully. At that rate it would take him twenty hours a day to earn his seven-and-sixpence. The idea occurred to him to look at the “Doom of the Floating Fiend.” He read a few pages and then dropped the work hopelessly on to the floor. The instinct of the scholar and man of culture awakened in revolt. His mind would not be prostituted to stuff like that. “Sooner death!” he said to himself, with whimsical bitterness. His own carefully elaborated efforts he tore up with a sigh. Then, tired out, he prepared to go to bed. Suddenly, in the midst of his undressing, he caught sight, to his immense surprise, of a letter lying on his counterpane, where the maid of all work had carelessly thrown it. From whom could it be? Letters were things of an almost forgotten past. It was in a woman’s hand. Then he remembered he had given his address to Yvonne. The letter was from her, and ran:-- “Dear Stephen,--Oh, why didn’t you come last night? I was _so_ disappointed. You surely did n’t think I only asked you out of politeness. I hope nothing has happened to you. My head was running over all day with a little plan for you. Do come and catch it before it all runs away. I shall be in to- morrow afternoon. You know it’s just like old times--writing a silly little note to you. Yours sincerely, Yvonne Latour.” Joyce went to bed and slept the sound sleep of a jaded man. But the letter lay under his pillow. CHAPTER IV--DEA EX MACHINA There’s nothing like leather,” cried Yvonne, gaily. “If I had been a milliner, I should have thought what a gentlemanly shopwalker you would have made. As I am a singer, I can only think of the profession. You did n’t know I was so philosophical, did you?” “But I can’t sing a note now, Madame Latour,” said Joyce. “We ’ll try after you have had some tea. But you ’ll be good enough for Brum, I’m quite sure. If he did n’t take you on I should never speak to him again.” With which terrible threat she poured the tea outside the cup into the saucer. “It seems too good to be true,” said Joyce, in a subdued tone. “It seemed impossible I should ever get work among honest men again. I am deeply grateful to you, Madame Latour--I cannot tell you how deeply.” “Here is some tea,” said Yvonne, cup in hand, “I have put milk in, but no sugar. I am so glad you like my little scheme. I was afraid it was n’t worth your while.”