I grew to admire her greatly, and though we had no sexual relationship whatsoever, sometimes when I heard her turning over in bed, or saw her coming back naked from her bath I knew vague stirrings and excitement. But I repressed them vigorously and, indeed, they were never much more than the ripples on a pond as compared with the combers off the Horn of the average Mug. Our combined income for the next three years averaged £5,000, not one penny of which went into the coffers of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. By now I was a badly wanted and notorious person, but I have a sixth sense for evading the constable, and I could see retirement and ease before me very soon, when the one thing I had considered inconceivable happened. Charity fell in love with a poor man in the middle stage of consumption, who most improvidently and prematurely caused her to be with child. After she had told me this she cut short my remonstrances and protests, by informing me she must have money to marry on, and that I must supply it to the tune of £2,000 a year for six years. I replied I would make it £200 a year for three years, and not a penny more. “In that case,” she said, “I go round to the Editor of _Truth_ to-morrow and tell him everything.” “And ruin yourself!” I replied. “What’s come over you? Be sensible. Have the baby quietly, leave this young dying fool for ever, and concentrate on business. A child might be useful to us. I’ll think that point over.” “I shouldn’t waste your valuable time if I were you,” she answered, “and don’t be too sure I _shall_ ruin myself. _You’re_ the big game they are after. If I give you away they won’t bother about me, and I doubt if they could convict me, anyway. And I don’t mind betting the papers will pay me anything I like to ask for my story after you’ve been jugged.” “Give me time to think,” I said. Was she bluffing? I didn’t believe so. She was probably right. The police would merely use her as evidence against me, and she would be able to get thousands of pounds for her version of the last three years. Yet pay her £2,000 a year for six years! It would _just not_ ruin me, and she knew it. The gross ingratitude! I tried to get her to lower her terms, but she was adamant. “I don’t feel well, and am going down to Folkestone to-morrow for a week. I shall expect your answer directly I return,” was her ultimatum.