"Write to me as soon as you get this, so that I may have a letter to take with me when I leave. I shall watch for every post and count the minutes till it comes. I have arranged with my bankers to send the money to you every week. Dearest, if this is not enough, please let me know, and I will send some more...." Micky scratched out the last five words, finally rewriting the whole page to add "... Let me know and we must see what can be done. I cannot bear to think that you are wanting anything which it is in my power to give you. Tell me all about yourself; if you are well and happy--and how often you think of me. I shall write again soon, perhaps to-morrow ... and till then, and for ever, I am always yours, Micky ...." He added his own signature without noticing it, then realised what he had done and rewrote the last page in a panic. Supposing he had sent it!--it made him hot all over to think what would have happened. He would have to be more careful, he told himself severely. He carefully directed the letter and went out to post it, then he went to bed in the little room with the low ceiling and lay awake half the night. Now the letter had gone he wished he had never sent it; after all, it was cheating Esther. It was not fair to make her write to him; he felt that he had behaved like a cur ... he tossed and turned from side to side. Perhaps she would not write! He almost hoped she would not. When at last he dozed off it was almost daybreak; when he woke it was eleven o'clock and the sunshine was pouring into his room. He had a bit of a headache and felt wretched; he drank four cups of strong coffee and went out. He avoided the popular thoroughfares; he sauntered about till lunch time and then went back to the hotel. Apparently the waiter had spoken the truth when he said the place was almost empty, for only two of the twenty tables were occupied beside his own. Micky felt bored; he made up his mind to tell Philips what he thought of his recommendation when he got back to London. He slept all the afternoon, then dressed and went off to dinner at the hotel where he and Driver stayed when they were last in Paris. Here at least was a welcome; most of the waiters recognised him; the attention was excellent, and he got a decent dinner. The hotel was full, but though Micky looked suspiciously at every one who came in, he recognised nobody. He wondered how long he had got to stay in Paris. Esther could not get his letter and send a reply that would arrive in less than three days; he calculated that he could not get back to London before Sunday morning. And Esther was going to Mrs. Ashton's on Saturday. He had just finished his dinner when the swing doors opened and a man came into the room with a lady in evening dress. Micky looked at them, and his heart began to race--for the man was Raymond Ashton, and the woman, Tubby Clare's little widow.