Well, he would send the notes to Kitty in such a way that she could not suspect him. A hundred pounds would give her a certain independence and power whatever happened; they would open a way of escape if the need for that became urgent. Colin did not ignore the possibility of her going to London, but he honestly strove to extinguish the hope of meeting her there. Had she not told him frankly that she did not love him, and what was his worldly state that he should dare to dream of any girl as his own? As an honourable man he must go his own way and endeavour to forget those sweet stolen hours in the woods around Dunford. It is not to be assumed that Colin arrived in London penniless. To be precise, he possessed the sum of £15 1s. 1d, but whether such a considerable sum gives a young man a better start than the proverbial half-crown may be left open to question. With only thirty pence in his pocket a man dare not pause to pick and choose, and perhaps that is the real secret of the success of the half-crown adventurers—if they ever really existed. Colin had plenty of acquaintances, not to mention sundry relations in London, but he had no desire to see them in his present circumstances, nor did he imagine they would be rejoiced to see him. Most of us can be quite kind to the failure, but few of us can sincerely sympathize with him, especially when we conceive him to be a fool as well. London held but one man whom Colin desired to meet. This was Anthony West, a friend of his earlier student days. West, who was several years the senior, had been a failure, too; that is to say, he had stuck in the midst of his science course, wriggled for a while between paternal wishes and personal inclination, and been captured finally by the latter. A writer of clever prose trifles and dainty verse, he had plunged into journalism. The friends had not met since then, and their correspondence had gradually ceased. West’s last letter had been written two years ago. To the address on it Colin went on the morning of his arrival. Mr. West, the landlady informed him, had left a long time ago; she had no other information to give. Colin, after recourse to the Directory, journeyed to a court off Fleet Street, made some inquiries, entered a doorway of grimy and forbidding appearance, ascended three flights of steep and narrow stairs, and tapped at a door that had seen better days. A shout bade him enter, and he advanced into the London office—or part of it—of a provincial evening paper, and the presence of his friend who, bowed and scribbling at a decrepit desk, took no notice of him. A more dismal and dusty little room Colin had never been in. Poor old West had evidently failed again. His heart was sinking fast when the scribbler turned, stared and recognized him.