It was so easy, so uncomplicated. He would see her. He would do what he had to do. Then he would take a taxi-cab to the theatre. He must play to-night. Of course he would. There was no reason why he should n't. Only he hoped that Leonora Gurney would n't worry him. He would manage to avoid her during that confounded wait in the first act, when she always tried to get him to talk. He would play the part all right. He was a man and not a stalk of wet straw. After the performance he would give himself up. No one would be inconvenienced. He would ask the authorities to hurry on matters and give him a short shrift and a long rope; but the length of the rope did n't matter these days, when they just broke your neck. There was no one dependent on him. His brothers and sisters, many years his seniors,--he had not seen them since he was a child,--had all gone after their father's death to an uncle in New Zealand. They were there still. The mother, who had remained with him, the Benjamin, in England, had died while he was at Cambridge. He was free from family-ties. And women? He was free, too. There had only been one woman in his life, the child of cloud and sea foam. Stellamaris, star of the sea, now dragged through the mire of mortal things! She should go back. She should go back to her firmament, shining down upon, and worshipped by, the man she loved. And he, God!--he should be spared the terrifying agony of it. Thus worked the brain which Walter Herold told himself was crystal clear. It was clear enough, however, to follow the postman's directions. He took the turning indicated and found the red-brick block, with the name “Amelia Mansions” carved in stone over the entrance door. The by-street seemed to be densely populated. He went into the entrance-hall and mechanically looked at the list of names. Mrs. Rawlings's name was followed by No. 7. He mounted the stairs. On the landing of No. 7 there were a couple of policemen, and the flat door was open, and the length of the passage was visible. Herold was about to enter when they stopped him. “You can't go in, sir.” “I want Mrs. Rawlings.” “No one can go in.” He stood confused, bewildered. An elderly, buxom, woman, with a horrified face, who just then happened to come out of a room near the doorway, saw him and came forward. “You are Mr. Herold,” she asked. “Yes; I want to see Mrs. Rawlings.” “It 's all right, constable,” she said in a curiously cracked voice. “Let this gentleman pass. Come in, sir. I am Mrs. Bence.”