John retraced his steps wearily to the hotel. The loss of his career had stung him yesterday. How to keep Mitty in comfort seemed of far greater importance to-day--how to provide a home for her with a little kitchen in it. John wondered whether he and Mitty could live on a hundred a year. He knew a good deal about the ways and means of the working classes, but of how the poor of his own class lived he knew nothing. But even the thought of Mitty could not hold him long. His mind ever went back to Di with an agony of despair and rapture. During these three interminable months during which he had not seen her, he had pictured her to himself as taking life as usual, wondering perhaps sometimes--yes, certainly wondering--why he did not come; but it had never struck him that she would be unhappy. When he saw her he had suddenly realized that the same emotions which had rent his soul had left their imprint on her face. Could women really love like men? Could Di actually, after her own fashion, feel towards him one tithe of the love he felt for her? John recognized with an exaltation, which for the moment transfigured as by fire the empty desolation of his heart, that the change which had been wrought in Di was his own work. Her cheek had grown pale for him, her eyes had wept for him, her very beauty had become dimmed for his sake. "I shall go mad," said John, starting to his feet. "Why is that damned letter still unposted?" Purpose was melting within him. The irrevocable step even now had not been taken. Lord ---- and his own lawyer would say nothing if at the eleventh hour he drew back. He must act finally this instant, or he would never act at all. He went into the next room, where Archie was languidly shaving himself in a pink silk _peignoir_, and obtained from him Colonel Tempest's address. He addressed the letter, and took his hat and stick. "I will post it myself this instant," he said to himself. He went quickly downstairs and across the little court, scattering the pigeons. His face looked worn and ravaged in the vivid sunshine. He passed under the archway into the street, and as he did so two well-dressed men came out of a _cafe_ on the opposite side. Before he had gone many steps one of them crossed the road, and raised his hat, holding out a card. "Mr. Tempest of Overleigh, I think," he said respectfully. John stopped and looked at the man. He did not know him. The decisive moment had come even before posting the letter. "Now or never," whispered conscience. "My name is Fane," he said, and passed on. The man fell back at once and rejoined his companion. "I told you so," he said. "That man is a deal too old, and he said his name was Fane. It's the other one in the tow wig, as I said from the first. That ain't real hair. It's the wig as alters him." John posted his letter, saw it slide past recall, and then walked back to the hotel, found Archie in the sitting-room reading the playbills for the evening, and told him.