But, strangely enough, Nigel was able to discuss the fallen fortunes of Sparrow Hall with even less emotion than Len and Janey. The tides of his grief seemed to find their way into small streams only. It was about the side-issues of their tragedy that he asked most questions. Was Leonard still going to have a man to help him, now his brother had returned?--Was any profit likely to be made in their reduced circumstances?--Was there any chance of buying back what they had sold to Lowe? "We shall have to go quietly," said Len, "but I don't see why we shouldn't pull through if we're careful. I've given Boorman a week's notice. He can bump round here till it's up, and lend you a hand now and then--I don't suppose you'll tumble into things just at first." Nigel suddenly turned away. "I'm going out--to have a look round the place." "Now!" "Yes--it's a beautiful clear night." Janet and Leonard moved towards the door. "I'm going alone," said Nigel shortly. Janet and Leonard stood still. They stared at each other, at first with surprise, then a little forlornly, while their brother pulled on his overcoat, and went out of the room. Never, since they could remember, had one of the Furlongers preferred to be without the others. It was past midnight, and Janet was not yet asleep. She lay in bed, with a lighted candle beside her, her hair tumbled over the pillow and over her body, her neck gleaming through the heavy strands. Her room was full of warm splashes of colour. The bedspread and carpet, though faded, glowed with sudden reds and gentle browns--faded red roses were on the wall. The window was low, so that when she turned on the pillow she could look straight out of it at a huddled mass of woods. It was uncurtained, and the stars flashed through the thick panes. There was a knock at the door. "Come in"--and Nigel came in softly. "Hullo, old man." "I want to speak to you, Janey." "And I want to speak to you. Come and sit on the bed." "I--I want to say I'm sorry I cried this evening." "Oh, don't!" gasped Janet. "It's a habit one gets into in prison--crying about little things. Prison is made up of little things and crying about 'em--that's why it's so hellish." Her hand groped on the coverlet for his. "I expect I'll get out of it--crying, I mean--now I'm back." "Don't let it worry you, old boy--we're pals, you and Len and I. But--but--don't you really like us talking to you about prison?" He lifted his head quickly. "It all depends." "You see, there you were ragging and laughing about your clothes and your hair and all that. So how was I to know you'd mind----"