Before leaving she came hurriedly into the sitting-room where I was reading and Terry was dozing in a chair. "Good-bye," she said to me, taking off her furred gauntlet glove to shake hands. Then she went over to Terry and touched him sharply on the arm. "Wake up," she cried, "and thank me for saving your life!" He opened his eyes and stared stupidly at her; I daresay he was as surprised as he had ever been. "Do you play tennis?" she asked, before he had time to speak. He stammered that he didn't, and she said: "Well, you ought to--it's better than boozing, anyway ... Good-bye--I'm off now." She waved her hand and hurried out, but even her hurry had in it some curious quality of calmness. And that, grotesque as it may be, is a plain account of their first meeting since she was a child. Taplow told me afterwards that Terry had had no more drink than on many previous occasions--certainly not enough to make an ordinary man stagger along a road. But perhaps he had been--just then, at any rate--an extraordinary man. Perhaps, as I suggested awhile back, the receipt of Mizzi's package _had_ stirred him, and at a time when any sort of emotion was rather more than he could bear. He made very little comment when June had gone. In no way did her visit seem to affect him; he just lived on as usual, letting the days slip idly by, with no care for what he did with them or for what they did with him. Anything, almost, would have been a welcome change from the monotony of his indifference; I would rather have had him swear vengeance on Karelsky, or even steep himself in despair because June had seen him drunk. But he had no energy for either; and all the while the bill for Severn to pay was piling up to quite a formidable sum. Chiefly, of course, I was concerned for what Severn might think; the money itself was of small consequence. I should have tackled Terry pretty frankly, had he not been overwhelmed by a belated realization of the facts. News of that reached me from June, whom I chanced to meet one frosty morning in Piccadilly. She said instantly: "Come for a walk--I want to tell you something." We strolled into Green Park, and she told me that she had just met Terry. "In Charing Cross Road," she said. "He was trying to sell some books, and I watched him go in and out of half-a-dozen shops without any luck. Then I went up and spoke to him. At first he wouldn't tell me what he was doing, but I asked him to tea and wriggled it out of him." "Well?" "It was a good job I _did_ ask him to tea. Otherwise he'd have gone without--for he hadn't a penny on him--nothing but the return ticket to Haslemere.... He'd thought he'd get quite a pile of money for the books, but the dealers wouldn't even make an offer--no market for scientific treatises in German, they said.... He couldn't understand it." "But why did he want to sell the books at all?"