He was as usual the next morning. Had Noreen not been altogether in the dark in regard to the specific charge against Routledge, she could have put this and other fragments together into a rough form of truth. The few who knew all, imparted nothing. To the rest, the name of Routledge was attached to a certain unspeakable atrocity, and was thus whispered wherever Englishmen roved and strived. The man’s mysterious figure had been in the London press for years. England makes much of her correspondents, and Routledge, the _Review_ man, had aroused comment from Auckland to Winnipeg--familiar comment, like the record of a general. A curse had fallen upon the name now, and it was none the less heinous because the reason, so far as the multitude was concerned, was a historical mystery. Articles like Finacune’s from the field in Bhurpal had given Englishmen everywhere an idea of the personality of this arch-enemy; and the fact that Routledge was still alive, and miraculously unpunished, was a covert challenge to the British around the world.... Noreen despaired of learning the truth. The merest mention of the subject harrowed and discountenanced her father, and netted no revelation whatsoever. Hers were stern, hard-checked days, full of heart-hunger. It seemed to her sometimes as if her individuality must perish in the midst of this interminable system of agonies. That last hour in the carriage had left her thrilling, burning. She wished she had said even more to show her loyalty.... She thought of Routledge out on God’s great windy seas--always alone, always on deck in storms that drove others below; she thought of him moving in the hidden slums of India, native of the natives, eternally shadowed from his kind--alone, wasted, accursed.... Once--it was the same night that he had slipped from a noose in the house at Madras--she woke with a scream to find that it was only a dream--that he was being murdered. Yet she was terrified for days, as only one can be terrified whose brain is fine enough to respond to the immaterial currents, molding and weaving behind all scenes and things. Often it came to her, “This is my battle. I must fight it cleanly and without a cry. It is hard for him and hard for me--as much as we can bear. Only Routledge-san and I can know how hard--and God, who measures our strength. But I shall see him again. I shall see him again. _I shall see him again._”