'Then go back to Africa and see some more. You shall not stay here to laugh at me. Goodbye.' He caught her by the hand. 'Letty! How can you be so cruel.' 'Then you should do as I ask you. As you would do, without hesitation, if you really had a spark of the love you pretend to have for me.' 'I will; I'll do whatever you ask, though I'm ashamed of myself when I say so.' 'Promise that to-night you'll take your own?' 'I promise.' She sat down again, and was as nice as she could be; he only knew how nice that was. He would have been as happy as is possible if it had not been for the thoughts which were at the back of his head, and the prospect which lay in front of him. Unfortunately, nearly all the time Miss Broad was causing him to realise his good fortune in winning the love of such a girl as she was he was picturing himself stealing up a flight of darkened stairs, like a thief. CHAPTER VII THE BOTTOM DRAWER That night he realised his own picture. One o'clock was the hour suggested by Miss Casata. Twenty times before that hour arrived he told himself that he had better return to Africa--ghosts or no ghosts--than do this thing. It seemed to him that dishonour hedged him round about; that whichever way he went he would find himself among the thorns. If he did this thing he would break his plighted word; quite possibly lose his love and his fortune too. If he did the other he might quite possibly find himself up to the neck in a slough of misunderstandings--to speak of nothing worse--from which he could never emerge as clean as he went in. The choice was a pleasant one. Yet he never hesitated as to which horn of the dilemma he would thrust himself on. Although very much against his will, he was set on burglary. And, being once resolved, set about the business, to all outward appearances, as calmly as if such incidents were the mere trivialities of his nightly life. At a quarter after midnight he started to stroll from Charing Cross. At the half hour he was sauntering in the Westminster Abbey Gardens. He glanced along Victoria Street as far as he could see. An occasional omnibus came rumbling along. Cabs flitted to and fro; sometimes carriages. But foot passengers were few and far between. And, so far as could be seen from the street, the buildings on either side of the way were in darkness. He strolled gently on, swinging his stick, smoking a cigar, as any other gentleman might have done who enjoyed the cool night air. Under a lamp-post stood a policeman. Mr Holland smiled. 'Good-night, officer!' He bestowed on him a genial salutation, which the other returned in kind. 'Good-night, sir.'