It was a good sign--this sudden anger--had he but known it. When a man can be angry with a woman he has once loved he is already beginning to love her less; already beginning to see her as less perfect. Some one tapped at his door; his man entered. Costin was another bone of contention between Jimmy and the Great Horatio. "I never had a valet when I was your age," so his brother declared. "What in the wide world you need a valet for is past my comprehension." Jimmy had felt strongly inclined to answer that most things were past his comprehension, but thought better of it; he could not, at any rate, imagine his life without Costin. He knew in his heart that he had no least intention of sacking Costin, and Costin stayed. "If you please, sir," he began now, coming forward, "Mr. Sangster would like to see you." "Show him up," said Jimmy. He rose to his feet and stood gnawing his lower lip agitatedly. How much did Sangster know, he wondered, about Cynthia? He would have liked to refuse to see him, but--well, they would have to meet sooner or later, and, after all, Sangster had been a good friend to him in more ways than one. Jimmy said: "Hallo, old chap!" with rather forced affability when Sangster entered. The two men shook hands. Sangster glanced at the breakfast-table. "I'm rather an early visitor, eh?" "No. Oh, no. Sit down. Have a cigarette?" "No, thanks." There was little silence. Jimmy eyed his friend with a sort of suspicion. Sangster had heard something. Sangster probably knew all there was to know. He shuffled his feet nervously. Sangster was the sort of man at whom a woman like Cynthia Farrow would never have given a second glance, if, indeed, she thought him worthy of a first. He was short and squarely built; his hair was undeniably red and ragged; his features were blunt, but he had a nice smile, and his small, nondescript eyes were kind. He sat down in the chair Jimmy had vacated and looked up at him quizzically. "Well," he said bluntly, "is it true?" Jimmy flushed. "True! what the----" The other man stopped him with a gesture. "Don't be an ass, Jimmy; I haven't known you all these years for nothing. . . . Is it true that Cynthia's chucked you?" "Yes." Jimmy's voice was hard. He stared up at the ceiling under scowling brows. Sangster said "Humph!" with a sort of growl. He scratched his chin reflectively. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "It's the best thing that's ever happened to you, my son." Jimmy's eyes travelled down from the ceiling slowly; perhaps it was coincidence that they rested on the place on the mantelshelf where Cynthia's portrait used to stand. "Think so?" he said gruffly. "You never liked her." "I did--but not as your wife. . . . She's much more suited to Henson Mortlake--I always thought so. He'll keep her in order; you never could have done." Jimmy had been standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece; he swung round sharply.