Over-dressed men and under-dressed women passed across the pavement to the cabs, broughams, or motors which were summoned for them by the liveried messengers. Mostyn, as he stood crowded against the shuttered window of a shop, could see the bare shoulders, insufficiently covered by rich opera cloaks, the glint of jewels, the flushed faces; his nostrils received the vague impression of perfume; his ears were pierced by shrill whistling, by the roar of traffic, by the shouting and laughter, by all the discord--or was it harmony?--of a London night. And ceaselessly the restless crowd of the street surged to and fro: all manner of man and woman--the satisfied and the hungry, the well-clad and the ragged, the joyful and the sad. It was a different aspect of life from that which he had studied earlier in the day, and it was another emotion that stirred him as he watched. For was it not well that a man should see all sides, that he should judge for himself? The policy of repression, that which he had known all his life long--John Clithero's policy--now, more than ever, Mostyn saw the fallacy of it. The thing forbidden has a fascination which blinds the eyes to its danger; wilful ignorance may engender excess. Mostyn knew what it was to struggle with temptation, but his sense of honour and duty had held him in check. A weaker nature might easily have succumbed. As he watched, he reflected upon the attraction which this scene had had for his imagination; but he was not so sure that he felt the same about it now. By the curb stood a woman clad in the Salvation Army dress. She spoke to many, but was rudely repulsed. A stout young man, whose face Mostyn had not seen, was assisting a smartly-dressed woman into the hansom which had been summoned for him. The Salvation Army girl approached him. She lifted her arms and extended them straight out to the right and left, finally bringing them forward and pressing them together as if she were striving against a great weight. In that gesture she seemed to concentrate upon one man alone all the veiled sin, the careless folly of the scene. "Man," she cried appealingly, "behold thy handiwork!" He repulsed her roughly, muttering an oath. He pushed her from him into the gutter. Mostyn sprang forward, fearing that she would fall, and at that moment, as he dragged her back to the pavement, he caught a glimpse of the face of the young man who had acted so brutally. There could be no mistaking those pale, pasty cheeks, nor the thin streaks of nondescript coloured hair hanging over the forehead--it was Mostyn's brother Charles--Charles, whose idea of honour had impelled him to play the part of tale-bearer and slanderer. Recognition was mutual. For one moment Charles stood staring at Mostyn in petrified dismay, then, without a word, he plunged after his companion into the hansom and was whirled away.