"If I thought," he answered, "that there was the slightest thing I could do in London which I have not already done, I would go back by the first train this morning, but, indeed, you must remember what I told you last night. The matter is practically settled. In a few days he will know." "It is those few days," she said softly, "which are so terrible." It was hard to try and make use of any conventional phrase of reassurance. Deane, remembering how intense, how real and startling a thing this tragedy really was, found it hard, impossible, indeed. "Tell me," he asked, "do you live absolutely alone?" "Yes!" she told him. "There was a cousin who was with me for some time, but she got a situation the other side of London, and had to move. I was in a boarding-house," she continued, after a moment's hesitation, "until--this happened. Then all the people--well, they meant to be kind," she broke off, "but the woman who kept it thought I had better leave, and I suppose she was right." "We will go in to breakfast," he said, a little abruptly. Every moment he seemed to realize more completely the pathos of her position. They turned towards the house. Suddenly her fingers fell upon his arm. "Who is that?" she asked, pointing landwards. Deane followed her outstretched finger. Riding along the top of one of the dykes, as though unconscious of the sea flowing on either side, came a boy on a bicycle. The bicycle was painted red, and the boy had on a cap whose high peak gave it a semi-official look. "He is coming here," said Deane. "It may be my letters. Or I think--" He stopped short. He knew very well that it was a telegram the boy was bringing, but he almost feared to say anything which would bring hope into her face. "It isn't--it couldn't be a telegram?" she asked, a little wistfully. "It might be," he admitted. "I get a good many, of course." He told the lie unblushingly. All the time he watched, with an anxiety which seemed incredible, for the coming of the messenger. "You must remember," he said, "that even if this should be a telegram, I really do not expect any news yet." She said nothing. She stood with parted lips by his side, and they watched the boy drive his bicycle along the sea-stained bank. Once he skidded, and she gave a little scream. Deane laughed at her, surprised to discover something unnatural in the sound. "Well," he said, "we will meet the boy here. I am afraid you will find a few stock exchange quotations inside the envelope, even if he should be--" "It is a telegraph boy," she interrupted. "I can see the wallet." She clung to his arm. Deane found himself patting her fragile hand with his strong fingers. He drew her arm through his, and led her a few steps further forward. The boy jumped off his bicycle and opened his wallet, as he approached, with a familiar movement. Deane took the telegram into his fingers and tore it open. His arm suddenly went round her waist.