At the back of his mind he had, perhaps, Maradick for his figure, but that was almost unconscious. “Mortimer Stant” was to represent a wonderful duel between the two camps--the Artists and the Philistines--with ultimate victory, of course, for the Artists. It was to be.... Well what was it to be? At present the stolid Mortimer was hidden behind a phalanx of people--Clare, young Stephen, Cards, Bobby, Mrs. Rossiter (tiresome woman), Alice Galleon--_That_ was it. It was hidden, hidden just as parts of “The Stone House” had been hidden, but hidden more deeply--a regular jungle of interests and occupations was creeping, stealthily, stealthily upon him. And then his eye fell upon an open letter that lay on his table, and, at the sight of it, he was seized with a burning sense of shame. How could he have forgotten? The letter ran-- _My dear Mr. Westcott, You have not been to see me for many months. Further opportunities may, by the hand of God, be denied you. Come if you can spare the time. Henry Galleon._ The words were written, feebly almost illegibly, in pencil. Peter knew that Bobby had been, for many weeks, very anxious concerning his father's health, and during the last few days he had abandoned the City and spent all his time at home. That letter had come this very morning and Peter had intended to go at once and inquire. The fact that he had left all these months without going to see the old man rose before him now like an accusing hand. He deserved, indeed, whatever the Gods might choose to send him, if he could so wilfully neglect his duty. But he knew that there had been, in the back of his mind, shame. His work had not, so he might have put it to himself, been good enough to justify his presence. There would have been questions asked, questions that he might have found it difficult, indeed, to answer. But now the sight of that letter immediately encouraged him. Henry Galleon, even though he was too ill to talk, would put him right with all his perplexities, would give him courage to cut through all these complications that had been gathering, lately, so thickly about him. “This,” the room seemed to whisper to him, “is your chance. After all, you are given this opportunity. See him once before he dies and your fate will be shown you, clearly, honestly.” He stepped out of the house unperceived and was immediately conscious of the Spring night. Spring--with a precipitancy and extravagance that seems to be--to own peculiar quality in London--had leapt upon the streets. The Embankment was bathed in the evening glow. Clouds, like bales of golden wool, sailed down a sky so faintly blue that the white light of a departed sun seemed to glow behind it. The lamps were crocus-coloured against black barges that might have been loaded with yellow primroses so did they hint, through their darkness, at the yellow haze around them.