"I have always maintained," I answered slowly, even more stern than before, "that no woman can be safely trusted to know a cad from a gentleman. If the cad can flourish a trifle of worldly success in front of her, or if he's a mere adventurer and flashes himself on her boldly enough, _or_, if she has persuaded herself to pity him, she's just fascinated, and you can't trust her judgment ten yards. There! . . . I've burnt my boats." Constantia sat for some while pondering this, breathing out the smoke of her cigarette, gazing into the fire under the shade of a handscreen. "I'll tell you another thing, Roddy," she said at length; "and it's as true and truer. No woman thinks worse of a man for burning his boats. . . . But it isn't quite worldly success to be wrecked and left desolate on an island three hundred miles from anywhere. It all started (as you hinted) with my pitying him and admiring his strength of will after the awful experience he had tholed." "He left you just now? I saw him drive away, and his infernal dog with him." "Yes: there had been a pretty bad scene. I was furious, and Mamma was so much upset that I doubt if she'll be fit to talk to-night. But it's a blessed relief to her, now that she knows you are anchored here for a while, to protect us, and that, at the worst, we can ring up Jermyn Street." "Why," I exclaimed, "what the devil is there to protect you from?" "Jack--Mr. Foe, that is--has been watching this house for days. He haunts the pavement opposite, all the hours he is off duty. Mamma is sure that he means evil, and I wish I was sure that he didn't. He has gone under, Roddy. It is awful to look out, as Furnilove draws the blinds, and see that figure there stationed, reproaching us--yet for what harm that we have done him? He is even ragged. . . . I should not be surprised to hear he was starving. Yet what can we do?" "Tell me his address," said I. She hesitated. "Why should you suppose that I know his address?" she asked, shading her face. But I took her up bluntly. "I am sorry," I said, "to be discharging apophthegms upon you to-night: but you must hear just one other. Every woman follows and traces a man who has once laid his heart on her altar. I am sorry, Con, to call up an instance from so far back in the past: but you knew where to 'phone even for me, this morning. . . . So own up, child, and tell me, where is Foe?" "I believe," she answered after a while, the handscreen hiding her face, "he has found work in one of these emergency hospitals they are putting up. . . . It's at a place called Casterville Gardens, down by Gravesend. When first he started watching this house, he was in rags; but for the last fortnight he has worn khaki, and it improves his appearance wonderfully. . . . Besides, when a man is in the army, you have the comfort to know that, at least, he isn't starving." "Was it so bad as that?" I asked. "Well, and now about Farrell?"