The Onlooker got out at the next station. Short of owning to his own lie, he had done what he could to insure its being found out for the lie it was--or, at least, for a mistake. And when he had done what he could, he saw that the Lover might not find it out--might be passed for the Army--might go to the Front--might be killed--and then--"Well, I've done my best, anyhow," he said to himself--and himself answered him: "Liar--you have _not_ done your best! You will have to eat your lie. Yes--though it will smash your life and ruin you socially and professionally. You will have to tell him you lied--and tell him why. You will never let him go to South Africa without telling him the truth--and you know it." "Well--you know best, I suppose," he said to himself. * * * * * "But are you perfectly certain?" "Perfectly. I tell you, man, you're sound's a bell, and a fine fathom of a young man ye are, too. Certain? Losh, man--ye can call in the whole College of Physeecians in consultation, an' I'll wager me professional reputation they'll endorse me opeenion. Yer hairt's as sound's a roach. T'other man must ha' been asleep when ye consulted him. Ye'll mak' a fine soldier, my lad." "I think not," said the Lover--and he went out from the presence. This time he reeled like a man too drunk to care how drunk he looks. He drove in cabs from Harley Street to Wimpole Street, and from Wimpole Street to Brooke Street--and he saw Sir William this and Sir Henry that, and Mr. The-other-thing, the great heart specialist. And then he bought a gardenia, and went home and dressed himself in his most beautiful frock-coat and his softest white silk tie, and put the gardenia in his button-hole--and went to see the Girl. "Looks like as if he was going to a wedding," said his landlady. When he had told the Girl everything, and when she was able to do anything but laugh and cry and cling to him with thin hands, she said-- "Dear--I do so hate to think badly of anyone. But do you really think that man was mistaken? He's very, very clever." "My child--Sir Henry--and Sir William and Mr.--" "Ah! I don't mean _that_. I _know_ you're all right. Thank God! Oh, thank God! I mean, don't you think he may have lied to you to prevent your--marrying me?" "But why should he?" "He asked me to marry him three weeks ago. He's a very old friend of ours. I do hate to be suspicious--but--it is odd. And then his trying to get you to South Africa. I'm certain he wanted you out of the way. He wanted you to get killed. Oh, how can people be so cruel!" "I believe you're right," said the Lover thoughtfully; "I couldn't have believed that a man could be base like that, through and through. But I suppose some people _are_ like that--without a gleam of feeling or remorse or pity." "You ought to expose him." "Not I--we'll just cut him. That's all I'll trouble to do. I've got _you_--I've got you in spite of him--I can't waste my time in hunting down vermin."