He drew the page out of the envelope and then he looked up at Ethel Harrison again. There was a dreadful yearning in his voice now. "Yes, yes, but _whom_ has my little Rita married?" Real fear fell upon Ethel now. She became aware that this man had not realised what had happened in any way. But the whole thing was too painful. It must be got over at once. "Mr. Ingworth Dickson, of course," she answered, with some sharpness in her tones. For a minute Lothian looked at her as if she were the horizon. Then he nodded. "Oh, Dicker," he said in a perfectly uninterested voice--"Yes, Dicker--just her man, of course. . . ." He was reading the letter now. This was Rita's farewell letter. "_Gilbert dear_: "I shall always read your books and poems, and I shall always think of you. We have been tremendous friends, and though we shall never meet again, we shall always think of each other, shan't we? I am going to marry Dicker to-morrow morning, and by the time you see this--Wog will send it--I shall be married. Of course we mustn't meet or write to each other any more. You are married and I'm going to be to-morrow. But do think of your little friend sometimes, Gilbert. She will often think of you and read _all_ you write." Lothian folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope with great precision. Then he thrust it in the inner breast pocket of his coat. Wog watched him, in deadly fear. She knew now that elemental forces had been at work, that her lovely Rita had evoked soul-shaking, sundering strengths. . . . But Gilbert Lothian came towards her with both hands outstretched. "Oh, I thank you, I thank you a thousand times," he said, "for all your goodness to Rita--How happy you must have been together--you two girls----" He had taken both her hands in his. Now he dropped them suddenly. Something, something quite beautiful, which had been upon his face, snapped away. The kindness and welcome in his eyes changed to a horror-struck stare. He began to murmur and burble at the back of his throat. His arms shot stiffly this way and that, like the arms of railway signals. He ran to one wall and slapped a flat palm upon it. "Tumpany!" he said with a giggle. "My wild-fowling man! Mary used to like him, so I suppose he's all right. But, damn him, looking out of the wall like that with his ugly red face!--" He began to sing. His lips were dark-red and cracked, his eyes fixed and staring. "Tiddle-iddle, iddle-tiddle, so the green frog said in the garden!" Saliva dropped from the corners of his mouth. His body was jerking like a puppet of a marionette display, actuated by unseen strings. He began to dance. Blazing eyes, dropping sweat and saliva, twitching, awful body. . . . She left him dancing clumsily like a performing bear. She fled hurriedly down to the office of the commissionaire.