“I know there is no great punishment awaiting me, because my pardon was apparently signed on the night before my escape. I shall not have much to tell you, because there is not much in the past two years that I would care to recall. We endured a great deal of unhappiness and death was very merciful when it took my beloved from me. “Do you ever see Kara in these days? “Will you tell Mansus to expect me at between ten and half-past, and if he will give instructions to the officer on duty in the hall I will come straight up to his room. “With affectionate regards, my dear fellow, I am, “Yours sincerely, “JOHN LEXMAN.” T. X. read the letter over twice and his eyes were troubled. “Poor girl,” he said softly, and handed the letter to Mansus. “He evidently wants to see you because he is afraid of using my friendship to his advantage. I shall be here, nevertheless.” “What will be the formality?” asked Mansus. “There will be no formality,” said the other briskly. “I will secure the necessary pardon from the Home Secretary and in point of fact I have it already promised, in writing.” He walked back to Whitehall, his mind fully occupied with the momentous events of the day. It was a raw February evening, sleet was falling in the street, a piercing easterly wind drove even through his thick overcoat. In such doorways as offered protection from the bitter elements the wreckage of humanity which clings to the West end of London, as the singed moth flutters about the flame that destroys it, were huddled for warmth. T. X. was a man of vast human sympathies. All his experience with the criminal world, all his disappointments, all his disillusions had failed to quench the pity for his unfortunate fellows. He made it a rule on such nights as these, that if, by chance, returning late to his office he should find such a shivering piece of jetsam sheltering in his own doorway, he would give him or her the price of a bed. In his own quaint way he derived a certain speculative excitement from this practice. If the doorway was empty he regarded himself as a winner, if some one stood sheltered in the deep recess which is a feature of the old Georgian houses in this historic thoroughfare, he would lose to the extent of a shilling. He peered forward through the semi-darkness as he neared the door of his offices. “I've lost,” he said, and stripped his gloves preparatory to groping in his pocket for a coin. Somebody was standing in the entrance, but it was obviously a very respectable somebody. A dumpy, motherly somebody in a seal-skin coat and a preposterous bonnet. “Hullo,” said T. X. in surprise, “are you trying to get in here?” “I want to see Mr. Meredith,” said the visitor, in the mincing affected tones of one who excused the vulgar source of her prosperity by frequently reiterated claims to having seen better days. “Your longing shall be gratified,” said T. X. gravely.