For a long, tense minute no word was spoken. Then Mr Maybury broke the silence. "If that is so," he said, "you must not marry Mr Jefferson, and I must go and tell him so." Dora raised her head. Her eyes shone like stars because of the great love she bore for Jim Mortimer. "Go, then," she said, "and I promise you I will be brave--now, and until the end." *CHAPTER XXVIII.* *A DELICATE MISSION.* Mr Harold Jefferson lived in the Albany, where a long succession of well-to-do bachelors, good and bad, have occupied chambers since the days of the later Georges. The bachelor nests in the Temple--so beloved of young Bar students fresh from the ’Varsity--wax insignificant in comparison with the lofty, depressing spaciousness which characterises Albany chambers. The rents, too, differ widely, for whereas a man may cut quite a tenemental dash in the Temple for fifty or sixty pounds a year, in the Albany one’s rental may run into anything between a hundred and forty and four hundred per annum. A quaint nook is this Albany. As one paces the stone-flagged footway in the contemplative stillness which broods over the place, it is an easy feat of the imagination to put the clock back a hundred years, to people the lettered houses with bucks and bloods in Regency attire, and, with the fall of night, to set the gaunt old quarter ablaze with candles, and listen to the flick and rattle of cards and dice, the popping of corks, and the sound of those old-fashioned oaths which it was thought fit that gentlemen should use freely in the days when Byron and Macaulay lived in this aristocratic bachelor precinct. But new times bring new men, and Harold Jefferson was of the newest. He lived in the Albany for the same reason that he drove a motor-car, ploughed the Thames in a steam launch, and frequented fashionable restaurants at fashionable hours--because it was expensive. On this particular night--the eve of his wedding day--Jefferson was superintending the packing of his various possessions. This was his last night in the Albany, so much had to be done. Albert, his valet, was moving here and there with dapper, noiseless steps, folding, arranging, pressing down, strapping, and locking. Albert was, on the whole, a good valet. He was punctual, obsequious, diplomatic, and only stole odd sixpences and shillings--for his was a mean little nature, content with little thefts. Albert put up with abuse that no honest man would have listened to in silence. Therefore he suited Jefferson. True, he had no respect whatever for his master, but Jefferson paid him more liberally than, say, a military gentleman would have done, so he stayed on with Jefferson, wore his left-off suits, annexed his small change, and was quite contented with himself in his negative, unambitious way.