Her eyes filled with tears. Herold, alarmed by her news and touched by her devotion, took her cheap-gloved hand and pressed it. Occupants of the dazzling equipages stared at the elegantly attired gentleman and the dowdy little girl love-making on the public seat. He tried to reassure her. “Every man with folks depending on him makes a will, so we can dismiss that; and I know heaps of men who keep revolvers.” “But why should the will be dated two days ago?” asked Unity. “Was it?” “The date was written on the envelope, with 'My Will' and his name.” “In all probability,” said Herold, “the cloud that has come between him and Stellamaris has made him decide to make a fresh will. I know he made one some years ago.” “But why the revolver?” “He spoke to me, also some years ago, about getting one. There had been one or two burglaries and an ugly murder--don't you remember?--in the neighbourhood. He must have got it then.” “It looks too new,” said Unity. “Those things keep new for ever so long, if they 're not used,” he argued. “Then you think there 's no danger?” she askeds with both her hands on his wrist. “Not at present,” he said, with a smile. “Look after him as closely as you can and keep up your brave little heart, or we 'll have you too going about with hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks, and we can't afford it.” “Me?” She sniffed derisively. “I'm as tough as a horse. And what do I matter?” “Your guardian would have a pretty poor time of it if he had only Aunt Gladys to look after him.” The shadow of a grin flickered over Unity's face. “I suppose he would,” she said. She went away half-comforted. She had shared her terrifying secret with Herold, which was a good and consoling thing; but she had not been quite convinced by his easy arguments. And Herold went away entirely unconvinced. He knew John as no one, not even Unity, who had made him the passionate study of her life, could know him. It was his peculiarity to pursue his right-headed ideas with far less obstinacy than his wrong-headed ones. In the former case he had a child's (and sometimes a naughty child's) hesitations, and was amenable to argument; but when bent on a course of folly, he charged blindly, and could be stopped only with great difficulty. Herold walked through the park in anxious thought, and, at a loose end for an hour or two, took a taxi to the club to which both he and John belonged. Avoiding the lounge and its cheery talk, he mounted to the deserted morning-room, and, having ordered tea, settled down to an evening newspaper, the pages of which he stared at, but did not read. Presently, to his surprise, John, who had avoided the club for some little time, burly and gloomy, entered the room. “I thought I'd come in for a quiet talk with somebody; but there's that ass Simmons down-stairs. He makes me sick.” Simmons was the wit and brilliant raconteur of the club.