'How very interesting!' exclaimed Mrs. Strangeways at length. 'Another instance of Mr. Redgrave's kindness to his friends. Of course, it was done purely out of kindness, and that is why he doesn't speak of it. Quite amusing, isn't it, to think of him as partner in a business of that kind. I wonder whether----' She broke off with a musing air. 'What were you wondering?' asked Alma, whose agitation increased every moment, though the seeming tendency of her companion's words was to allay every doubt. 'Oh, only whether it was _Mr_ Carnaby who first made known his difficulties.' 'I am told so.' 'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnaby could quite have--I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? She would hardly have spoken about it to--to a comparative stranger.' 'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger,' said Alma. 'They have been friends for a long time. Surely you know that.' 'Friends in _that_ sense? The word has such different meanings. You and Mr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell him if your husband were in difficulties of that kind--would you?' 'But Sibyl--Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him,' replied Alma, with nervous vehemence. 'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is--the kind of man----' 'What kind of man?' 'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy he wouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to Mr Redgrave or any one else. There _are_ men'--her voice sank, and the persistent smile became little better than an ugly grin--'there _are_ men who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat to you, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from the Carnabys. Then, I suppose,' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnaby is very often away from home?' Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed. 'I think so.' 'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it to _you_?' 'Of course not.' 'Naturally, he wouldn't.--Oh, don't go yet, dear. Why, we have had no tea; it isn't four o'clock. Must you really go? Of course, you are overwhelmed with engagements. But do--do take care of your health. And remember our little scheme. If Mr. Redgrave could look in--say, the day after tomorrow? You shall hear from me in time. I feel--I really feel--that it wouldn't be wise to let him think--you understand me.' With scarce a word of leave-taking, Alma hastened away. The air of this room was stifling her, and the low cooing voice had grown more intolerable than a clanging uproar. From Porchester Terrace she walked into Bayswater Road, her eyes on the pavement. It was a sunny afternoon, but there had been showers, and now again large spots of rain began to fall. As she was opening her umbrella, a cabman's voice appealed to her, and fixed her purpose. She bade him drive her to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions.