"My love! What thing is this which I have been consorting with all this time, and supposing it was love? That's not love. Bah! I have learnt my lesson rather late in the day, but I have learnt it, sweet. You have taught me what is love." He put the portrait back. He sat down again. But he still looked at the face which was on the mantelboard. "The place in which I am is such a tight one. You had been wiser, dear, had you believed me when I wrote that I was not fit for you, and so straightway have let me go. Again I'll endeavour to persuade you. But if you'll not be persuaded I will win you, and I will hold you, and I will keep you if I can, though to do so I have to plunge deeper in the mire. It may be, indeed, that that way atonement lies. Who knows?" CHAPTER XXXVII. "CALL ME DORA." Mr. Townsend's rooms were at Albert Gate. Miss Jardine's home was in Sloane Gardens. From Albert Gate to Sloane Gardens is not very far. It was a clear, brisk morning. Mr. Townsend decided to walk. Just as he had crossed the road some one touched his arm from behind, and a voice said-- "Excuse me--might I speak to you for a moment?" Mr. Townsend turned. He supposed it was a beggar. The speaker looked like one. The man--it was a man--had on a top hat which was battered and bruised out of all semblance of its original shape. His overcoat, which was trimmed with imitation astrachan, was torn in half a dozen places and covered with mud, as if it had been rolled in the gutter with its owner inside it, but it was buttoned right up to his chin in a manner which suggested a not unnatural anxiety to conceal material deficiencies in the rest of his attire. His countenance bore evidence of having been recently subjected to serious ill-usage. One eye was ornamented by a purple patch, the skin of his right cheek was bruised and broken as by a blow from a fist, and his mouth was so badly cut as to say, the least, to render it highly inconvenient for him to be compelled to open his lips. The sorry spectacle was Stewart Trevannion, _alias_ Alexander Taunton, _alias_ Mr. Arthur Stewart, _alias_ a dozen other names--the immaculate Mr. Townsend's brother. A striking contrast the two brothers presented as they stood there. Alexander was rubbing his hands over each other. He seemed to experience a difficulty in holding himself straight up. He shivered as if in pain. "Reginald," he muttered. Possibly Alexander was in a sensitive frame of mind. He seemed to shrink from the look of mingled amusement and scorn with which his brother regarded him. "You!" Mr. Townsend's voice rang with laughter. "Well, my man, what do you want with me--charity?" Alexander put up his hand, as if to hide his injured mouth. "It isn't only that." "No? What else is it then?" "It's a word I want to say to you--a word of warning." "Of warning? Against what?" "Do you know a man named Haines--an American?"