It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated. "Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?" "It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time." "I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I bade her good-bye. Maxwell was at the station. "Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life." "You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to waste." He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed the train. Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said: "John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course. How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow." I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived. "Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address. The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first. The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down. "Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside. It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter. As I turned and saw Maxwell standing with his back against the door, and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. It was to some extent confirmed when I observed the insolent smile reflected on the face of my stepmother.