'I think I'll see the rest another time, Colin, thanks,' said Dolly; 'I'm tired now.' 'I mayn't have time to show you another day,' said Colin, 'so you'd better----' But Dolly had gone--her passion for information having flickered out as suddenly as it rose. She knew that English-looking green stamp well enough; there had been dreadful days once when it had seemed always floating before her eyes, the thing which might send her to prison; she was much older now, of course, and knew better; but, for all that, it had not quite lost its power to plague her yet. For, this time at least, she was sure that Harold had not been teasing; she _had_ burnt the letter, and it came from Ceylon; Vincent must have written it, and he had come back and meant to scold her--she had cried so when she heard he was drowned, and now she was afraid to see him--a shadow she dared not speak of had once more fallen across her life! Caffyn came up with a Bradshaw in his hand. 'Had a hunt after it, I can tell you,' he said; 'and then your old landlady and I had a little chat--I couldn't get away from her. Aren't you fellows ready for some dinner?' And the relief with which Mark had seen the carriage roll away below had really given him something of an appetite. Before dinner, however, Mark took Caffyn up into his bedroom under the pretence of washing his hands, but with the real object of preventing a hideous possibility which--for his fears quickened his foresight--had just occurred to him. 'If you don't mind,' he began awkwardly, 'I--I'd rather you didn't mention that I had written--I mean, that you didn't say anything about "Illusion," you know.' Caffyn's face remained unchanged. 'Certainly, if you wish it,' he said; 'but why? Is this more of your modesty?' 'No,' said Mark, weakly, 'no; not exactly modesty; but, the fact is, I find that Holroyd has been going in for the same sort of thing himself, and--and not successfully; and so I shouldn't like to----' 'Quite so,' agreed Caffyn. 'Now, really, that's very nice and considerate of you to think of that, Ashburn. I like to see that sort of thing in a fellow, you know; shows he isn't spoilt by success! Well, you can rely on me--I won't breathe a word to suggest your being in any way connected with pen and ink.' 'Thanks,' said Mark, gratefully; 'I know you won't,' and they went down. Mark could not but feel degraded in his own eyes by all this hypocrisy; but it was so necessary, and was answering its purpose so well, that his mental suffering was less than might have been expected. At dinner he felt himself able, now that his fears were removed, to encourage conversation, and drew from Holroyd particulars of his Ceylon life, which supplied them with topics for that evening, and prevented the meal from becoming absolutely dull, even though it was at no time remarkable for festivity.