And the man was Reginald Candover, Gerard’s best friend. CHAPTER III Audrey was scarcely more than half conscious when she found herself out in the open air, such air as was to be had on a hot, dusty day at the end of May, with a blazing sun pouring down into the busy streets near the Old Bailey, and a keen east wind waiting round the corner, blowing clouds of paper, straw and dust into the faces of the passers-by. The blinding glare of the sun revived her, however, and made her blink. Looking round, she found herself supported by the arm of a man, listening to a voice she half remembered, and surrounded by a too attentive and too curious, but decidedly sympathetic, crowd. “Poor thing!” “She’s his wife!” “Didn’t you see him look at her?” “P’raps he didn’t do it, after all!” “Poor thing!” These and similar comments reached Audrey’s ears before they carried any sense to them. But remembrance, full, horrible, came back suddenly, and she drew herself up and struggled to regain her self-command. “Mr. Candover!” “Yes, yes. You’re all right. I’ve got my car here; only get through this abominable crowd, and you will be all right.” But Audrey had recovered her wits, and a sudden fierce resentment awoke in her. This was Gerard’s most intimate friend, and he had known all about their distress, yet they had seen nothing of him all through that dreadful time. She tried to draw away the hand which he held fast within his own arm. “You might have come to us before!” she said, with bitter reproach. “You knew the trouble we were in, and you professed to be so anxious to help us. Yet never once in all that dreadful time have we seen you!” “I--I told my secretary to do what he could. He did get bail for your husband!” faltered Mr. Candover in a tone of some contrition but still more reproach. “Because I insisted. I followed him about till he did,” retorted Audrey sharply. “As for myself, I was in Paris. I had to go. I told you so.” “Paris is not at the other end of the world. And you didn’t even write to him!” “Mrs. Angmering, you overwhelm me! Allow me to do the best I can to make amends for what indeed was not my fault. Let me do what poor Angmering would like best, and take care of his wife.” “Thank you. Your kindness comes too late. I can take care of myself.” And Audrey, now that they had come in sight of the smart motor-car which never failed to attract the attention of a crowd when it stopped, refused her companion’s entreaties that she would get into it, and dashed across the street to an omnibus. Mr. Candover was disappointed, but he took his disappointment with philosophy. His good intentions might be resented now, but they would be better appreciated some day. So he waited nearly a week, and then he called at the flat at West Kensington, and was told that Mrs. Angmering was not at home.