"God does forbid it. It's not that Hugh _makes_ me sorry for him; he never lets me know; but I do know. When his little finger aches I know it, and I ache all over--I think it's aching a bit now; that's what makes me want to go back to him." "I see--Pity," said the psychologist. "No. Not pity. It's simply that I know he needs me more than you do. That's why I need him more than I need you." "Pity," he reiterated, with a more insistent stress. "No." "Never mind what it is, if it's something that you haven't got for me." "It is something that I haven't got for you. There isn't time," she said, "to go into all that." As she spoke he heard wheels grinding the stones in the upper lane, the shriek of the brake grinding the wheel, and the shuffling of men's feet on the flagged yard outside. He shut the door and faced her, making his last stand. "You know what you're going back to." "I know." "To suffer," he said, "and to cause suffering--to one--two--three--innocent people." "No. Things will be different." "They won't. _We_ shall be the same." She shook her head a little helplessly. "At any rate," he said, "_you_ won't be different." "If I could--if I only could be----" "But you can't. You know you can't." "I can--if I give it up--once for all." "What? Your divine genius?" "Whatever it is. When I've killed that part of me I shall be all right. I mean--_they_'ll be all right." "You can't kill it. You can starve it, drug it, paralyze it, but you can't kill it. It's stronger than you. You'll go through hell--I know it, I've been there--you'll be like a drunkard trying to break himself of the drink habit." "Yes. But some day I shall break myself, or be broken; and there'll be peace." "_Will_ there!" "There'll be something." She rose. The wheels sounded nearer, and stopped. The gate of the farmyard opened. The feet of the men were at the door. LXIV Whatever Tanqueray thought of Brodrick's chill, it and the fear it inspired in Gertrude had been grave enough to keep him in the house. For three days (the last of September) he had not been in Fleet Street, in his office. There was agitation there, and agitation in the mind of the editor and of his secretary. Tanqueray's serial was running its devastating course through the magazine, and the last instalment of the manuscript was overdue (Tanqueray was always a little late with his instalments). Brodrick was worried, and Gertrude, at work with him in his study, tried to soothe him. They telephoned to the office for the manuscript. The manuscript was not there. The clerk suggested that it was probably still with the type-writer, Miss Ranger. They telephoned to Miss Ranger, who replied that the manuscript had been typed and sent to the author three weeks ago for revision.