“And that,” said Jacynth, walking away by himself, “is what Castleton calls telling me ‘all about that woman!’ I don’t know whom she loves, nor whether she loves anyone at this present moment. But that there are depths of feeling in that girl of which old Castleton is about as well able to judge as a mole of the solar system--but what’s the good of it! I have played my stake and lost it. I--I must get out of this place if I’m to keep any hold over myself at all. How could a raw lad like Frank Onslow value her or understand her? Of course, he was selfish and unreasonable and dull to all the finer part of her nature, like a boy as he is--or was, at any rate, when he married her!” He went up to his room and dragged out a portmanteau. He must get away. There was no use in parleying or delay. Flight, instant flight, was the only thing for him. But when he had opened the portmanteau, and dragged out a few clothes from the chest of drawers, he sat down by the bedside and buried his face in the pillow. “I love her! I love her!” he moaned out. And then he hated himself for his folly. At this moment a little childish footstep was heard tramping up the stairs; tap--tap--tap--tap, climbing up with much exertion, but with eager haste, and then a sweet little childish voice said, “Mr. Jacymf, Mr. Jacymf, are you there?” Jacynth opened the door with a wildly beating heart. Could she have sent him a message? “What is it, Ronny, my man?” he said, looking down upon the child’s curly, tawny hair and bright, innocent, hazel eyes that were so like his mother’s. “Hulloa!” cried Ronny, surveying the portmanteau and the litter of clothes on the floor, “are you going away?” “Yes, old boy.” “Is Grandison going too?” “No; not Grandison. What do you want, Ronny?” “I want you not to go away!” “Anything else?” “Yes. Why can’t you come with us, if you _are_ going away?” “Come with you? Where?” “With me and Mummy. Mummy says we shall go to a nicer place than this. And I may play cricket. I wanted you to come and play with me and Grandison. But I s’pose you can’t if you’re packing your clothes. Aint they in a jolly mess?” Jacynth lifted the child up in his arms and kissed him. “Good-by, Ronny,” he said, in a queer, choking voice; and then he set the little fellow outside the door and shut it. Ronny prepared to make the descent of the staircase, holding tight to the banisters. He put one little chubby finger up to his cheek and looked at it. “Hulloa!” said he very gravely, “my face is all wet!” CHAPTER IV. BY A. CONAN DOYLE. “BETWEEN TWO FIRES.” Happier is he who standeth betwixt the fire and the flood, than he who hath a jealous woman on either side of him.--_Fourth Veddah._