“Very well. I can promise to obtain it for you. You want me to tell you all I can find out about this woman. That’s the long and short of it. Nothing more? Then—good morning.” For a few minutes after Mortimer had gone, Mr. Davis stood before the fire, quietly smoking his cigarette. Then he rang the bell and told the sedate manservant to ring for a special messenger. He sat down at a small writing table standing by the window and scribbled a note which he folded with deliberation and then put into a thick envelope which he carefully sealed and addressed to Mrs. Ethel Harding. * * * * * Maddison had persuaded Marian to breakfast with him at the studio on the morning of his departure. They had not heard or seen anything more of her husband, and Maddison had more than once hinted his doubts as to there being any need for the separation, suggesting that she should go with him to Rottingdean. The mere thought of this had irritated Marian beyond endurance, though she concealed her feeling from him, only urging that no real change had taken place in the circumstances which had caused them to decide upon their plan, and she felt grateful to Mortimer when she heard that his advice and opinion accorded with hers. The delight with which she saw Maddison’s luggage-laden cab turn the corner of the street soon gave way, as she walked homeward, to a sense of inability as to how she could best make use of her new liberty. Pleasure at any cost was her first aim and requirement. In addition to Mortimer she had casually met a few of Maddison’s more Bohemian friends, but she neither desired nor dared approach them. Mortimer was wealthy, but it would be too risky, she counted, to ask him for anything, though anything he cared to offer she was prepared to accept. Then there was “Nosey” Geraldstein, who, Ethel Harding told her, was most anxious to know her, but she did not like him, and she had not yet plumbed that depth of callousness which makes a woman readily render herself to any man who will purchase her material pleasures; she could not yet content herself with the mere prose of lust; she still asked for some remnant of poetry, however ragged. There remained Ethel Harding. Passing by her own door, she went on up to her friend’s, where her knock was answered by the maid, who said that Mrs. Harding was not yet up. But the door of the bedroom standing ajar, Marian’s inquiry had been heard, and Mrs. Harding called out: “Come along in, Marian. I’m lazy and having breakfast in bed. Come in.” Marian went into the stuffy room, which was dimly lighted, the curtain being only half drawn from the window. “Find a chair, my dear; throw those things on to the floor. My head’s aching like the devil. I had a wild night of it. Have something? I tried a cup of tea, but it tasted like sand and water, so I’m indulging in a B. and S. Have one?” “No, thanks, I couldn’t!” Marian answered, laughing apologetically.