of his peace of mind--the way he had managed to entangle John in the affair. He had John hopelessly entangled now. It was strange how it had worked out. In the beginning he had honestly intended "to do the right thing." Or he believed he had. From the time, at any rate, that John had become seriously involved, he had really meant to "own up" as soon as Margery was well enough. Probably it would have meant suicide, he remembered--a long time ago it seemed--thinking of that; but he was going to do _something_. And then the inspiration and the chance had come hand in hand that Sunday morning to show him a better way. It _was_ a better way. He knew quite certainly now that he would never own up--not even if Margery was to die. He would never say a word to clear John's character. He had a fairly clear idea now of what would happen. There would (he hoped) be no further proceedings; the evidence was too thin. All that John would suffer would be this local gossip and petty suspicion; and he would have to live that down. John would not mind--a good fellow, John. But if he did mind, if he ever showed signs of expecting to be cleared, if he ever suggested a confession or any rubbish of that sort, the answer would be simple: "Really, my dear John, the evidence is so strong against you that I don't really think I should be _believed_ now if I said _I_ did it. And you must remember, John, you've anyhow sworn all sorts of things on your oath that you'd have to explain away--the Civil Service wouldn't like that--perjury, you know. Of course, if you _want_ me, John--but I really think it would be better from _your_ point of view--I only want to do the best for _you_, John--" He could hear himself solemnly developing the argument; and he could see John bowing to his judgment, acquiescing. If he didn't acquiesce; if he made trouble, or if the police made trouble--but Stephen preferred not to think of that. Yet if it did happen he would be ready. If it was oath against oath, with the scales weighted already against John, he knew who would be believed. And, after all, John Egerton, good fellow as he was, would leave but a tiny gap in the world. What were his claims on life? What had he to give to mankind? A single man, parents dead, an obscure Civil Servant, at five hundred a year--a mere machine, incapable of creation, easily replaced, perhaps not even missed. What was he worth to the world beside the great Stephen Byrne? Supposing they both died now, how would their obituary notices compare? John's--but John would not have one; his death would be announced on the front page of the newspapers. But about himself there would be half-columns. He knew what they would say: "Tragic death of a young poet still in his prime ... Keats ... unquestionable stamp of genius ... a loss that cannot be measured ... best work still unwritten ... engaged, we understand ... new poem ... would have set the seal ..." and so on.