One day, one Saturday half-holiday, Paul, who had not heard from George Wainwright for some days, had been up to the Doctor's establishment to inquire whether any news had been received of his friend, and having been replied to in the negative, he was listlessly returning to town, when the old fascination came upon him, and he struck up past Kensington Palace with the intention of lingering for a few moments in the familiar spot. He was idling along, chewing the cud of a fancy which was far more bitter than sweet, when his desultory footsteps came to a halt as he caught sight of a couple in front of him. A man and woman walking side by side in conversation. Their backs were towards him, but he recognised Daisy in an instant. The man was tall and of a good figure, and looked like a gentleman, but Paul could not see his face. His first impulse was to rush towards them, but better sense prevailed. His was not the nature to play the spy; so, with a smothered groan, he turned upon his heel, and slowly retraced his steps. There was an end of it, then. At last he had comprehended the full extent of his misery. All that he had feared had come to pass, and more. She had thrown him over, and he had seen her walking with another man in the very place which up to that time had been rendered sacred to him by the recollection of their meetings there. There was an end of it; but he would let her know that he was fully aware of the extent of her treachery and baseness. He would go to the club at once, and write to her, telling her all he had seen. He would not reproach her--he thought he would leave that to her own conscience; he would only--he did not know what he would do; his legs seemed to give way beneath him, his head was whirling round, and he felt as though he should fall prostrate to the ground. When he reached the Park gates--and how he reached them he never knew--he called a cab and drove to the club. He was hurrying through the hall, when the porter stopped him and handed to him a letter. It was from Daisy. Paul's heart beat high as the well-known writing met his view. He took it with him to the writing-room, which was fortunately empty, and sitting himself at the writing-table, laid the letter before him. He was uncertain whether he would open it or not. Whatever it might contain would be unable to do away with the fact which he had so recently witnessed with his own eyes. No excuse could possibly explain away the disloyalty with which she had treated him. It would be better, he thought, to return the letter unopened. But then there might be something in it which in future time he might regret not to have seen; some possible palliation of her offence, some expression of regret or softening explanation of the circumstances under which she had betrayed him. And then Paul opened the letter, and read as follows: