"I don't think we need send for a doctor," he said. "It's only a chill, I think. See how he is in the morning. What's he been up to, Costin?" Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows. "He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like----" He looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait. Sangster shook his head. "You mean----" he asked reluctantly. "Yes, sir." Costin tiptoed across the room and closed the door which led to Jimmy's bedroom. "He's never been the same, sir, since Miss Farrow died--asking your pardon," he added hurriedly. Sangster threw his cigarette end firewards. "It's a rotten business," he said heavily. In his own heart he agreed with Costin; he believed that it was Cynthia's death that was breaking Jimmy's heart. He would have given ten years of his life to have been able to believe that it was something else quite different. "Well, I'll look in again in the morning," he said. "And if you want me, send round, of course." "Yes, sir." Costin helped Sangster on with his coat and saw him to the door; he was dying to ask what had become of Mrs. Jimmy, but he did not like to. He was sure that Jimmy had merely got married out of pique, and that he had repented as quickly as one generally does repent in such cases. Sangster walked back to his rooms; he felt very depressed. He was fond of Jimmy though he did not approve of him; he racked his brains to know what to do for the best. When he got home he sat down at his desk and stared at the pen and ink for some moments undecidedly; then he began to write. He addressed an envelope to Christine down at Upton House, and stared at it till it was dry. After all, she might resent his interference, and yet, on the other hand, if Jimmy were going to be seriously ill, she would blame him for not having told her. Finally he took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and tossed up for it. "Heads I write, tails I leave it alone." He tossed badly and the penny came down in the waste-paper basket, but it came down heads, and with a little lugubrious grimace, Sangster dipped the pen in the ink again and squared his elbows. He wrote the letter four times before it suited him, and even then it seemed a pretty poor epistle to his critical eye as he read it through-- "_Dear Mrs. Challoner,--I am just writing to let you know that Jimmy is ill; nothing very serious, but I thought that perhaps you would like to know. If you could spare the time to come and see him, I am sure he would very much appreciate it. He seems very down on his luck. I don't want to worry or alarm you, and am keeping an eye on him myself, but thought it only right that you should know.--Your sincere friend,_ "RALPH SANGSTER."