Her image pursued him persistently in his waking and his leisure hours. He could recall every word she had spoken during the short time they had spent together. He could see her a dozen times a day standing in the "Excelsior" dining-room, paralysed with terror. He remembered the break in her voice, the mist in her beautiful eyes, when she had thanked him. And ever and again, he longed to fathom the mystery of her loneliness, the cause of that sadness that was always lurking underneath. Was it wise to pursue the acquaintance, with the pretty certain result of intensifying the interest he already felt in her? He had no liking for Mrs L'Estrange, a woman merely on the fringe of his world, or her gambling circle. If he wanted to lose or win money, there were plenty of other houses where he could indulge his fancy. And he knew nothing of Miss Keane's antecedents. The only thing he did know was that she had a cousin who was obviously a bounder of the first water. Tommy Esmond knew nothing about her either, or, if he did know, would not tell. For three days he wavered, one moment eager to rush off to the flat, the next determining that it would be better not to renew the brief acquaintance. On the fourth day, his impulse conquered his prudence. He told himself soothingly that his visit was due to curiosity, that he merely wanted to penetrate the mystery of her loneliness, her unprotected position. The bounder cousin was coming out as he entered. Mr Dutton nodded affably to him with a greasy and familiar smile. Spencer acknowledged him in the coolest fashion compatible with bare civility. Why were there people, he wondered, whom you instinctively wanted to kick, for no apparently sufficient reason? Miss Keane was alone. Mrs L'Estrange, she explained, was in bed with a racking headache. She had lost heavily the night before, and this was the usual penalty she paid for losing. "Hardly worth the candle, is it?" he said lightly, as he took his cup of tea from her. A slight frown crossed his brow as he observed the empty cup of "the bounder" on the table. Did he come here often? was his thought. Perhaps he was in love with her. But it was surely beyond the limits of possibility that she could ever return the affection of such a creature. He would see what he could get out of her. "I met your cousin as I came in. I suppose he is a frequent visitor?" She did not look in the least conscious or embarrassed by the question. "Oh yes, he comes very often. He is about the only one of my relatives I have any acquaintance with. My father's mode of life estranged all the others." Spencer thought it would have been a good thing if Mr Dutton had been as sensitive to the disqualifications of the late Mr Keane as the rest of her connections. But, of course, he could not say so. "He is not in the least like you." Then, after a pause, he added boldly, and perhaps a little rudely: "I should never have dreamed you were related."