At first, as he turned towards Piccadilly, he grasped nothing save the one stupendous fact that Peter was not dead. Then, as he walked on, gradually the realisation of what it meant to him personally came to his mind. And with that realisation there returned with redoubled force the insidious tempting voice that had first whispered: “Molly will never know.” She would never know—could never know—unless he told her. And Peter was happy; he’d said so. And the girl was happy—Lizzie. And perhaps—in fact most likely—Peter would never recover his memory. So what was the use? Why say anything about it? Why not say it was a mistake when they came that evening? And Jimmy put his hand to his forehead and found it was wet with sweat. After all, if Peter didn’t recover, it would only mean fearful unhappiness for everyone. He wouldn’t know Molly, and it would break her heart, and the girl’s, and—but, of course, _he_ didn’t count. It was the others he was thinking of—not himself. He turned into the Park opposite the Albert Hall, and passers-by eyed him strangely, though he was supremely unaware of the fact. But when all the demons of hell are fighting inside a man, his face is apt to look grey and haggard. And as he walked slowly towards Hyde Park Corner, Jimmy Lethbridge went through his Gethsemane. They thronged him; pressing in on him from all sides, and he cursed the devils out loud. But still they came back, again and again, and the worst and most devilish of them all was the insidious temptation that by keeping silent he would be doing the greatest good for the greatest number. Everyone was happy now—why run the risk of altering things? And then, because it is not good that man should be tempted till he breaks, the Fate that had led him to Peter, led him gently out of the Grim Garden into Peace once more. He gave a short hard laugh which was almost a sob, and turning into Knightsbridge he hailed a taxi. It was as it drew up at the door of Molly’s house that he laughed again—a laugh that had lost its hardness. And the driver thought his fare’s “Thank you” was addressed to him. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the first time Jimmy had prayed for ten years. “Why, Jimmy, old man—you’re early, I’m not dressed yet.” Molly met him in the hall, and he smiled at her gravely. “Do you mind, dear,” he said, “if I cry off to-night? I’ve got a very important engagement—even more important than taking you out to dinner, if possible.” The smile grew whimsical, and he put both his hands on her shoulders. “It concerns my wedding present for you,” he added. “From the bridegroom to the bride?” she laughed. “Something like that,” he said, turning away abruptly. “Of course, dear,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a bit of a head. Though what present you can be getting at this time of day, I can’t think.” “You mustn’t try to,” said Jimmy. “It’s a surprise, Molly—a surprise. Pray God you like it, and that it will be a success!”