Yet he had not been a dozen hours in England; the cheques had been written on board, and posted the moment he landed. On reaching London he had gone straight to Gordon Lowndes, and it was only the almost simultaneous arrival of Scrafton which had kept him so long from seeking his own. Scrafton, who had latterly taken to pestering his victim almost daily, had ultimately left him (to the delight of Lowndes) with the avowed intention of carrying out his old threat and going straight to Harry Ringrose. In what followed Harry's father had once more yielded, against his better judgment, to Gordon Lowndes. "It was his frankness that did it," said Mr. Ringrose; "he told me everything, before he need have told me anything at all, in his sheer joy at seeing me alive. He told me everything that he has since told you, and upon my word I am not sure that you or I would have acted very differently in his place. It was while we were talking that Scrafton called, and I learned for myself how Lowndes had suffered at his hands. I could not refuse to give him his revenge, though I should have vastly preferred to give it him there. Scrafton had gone, however, and Lowndes seemed almost equally anxious that you should judge between them, as it were, on their merits. So he had his way ... I am glad you have made it up with him, Harry. He is a strange mixture of good and bad, but which of us is not? And which of us does not need forgiveness from the other? I--most of all--need it from you!" "And I from you," said Harry in a low voice. "You? Why?" "Four years ago I suspected foul play. I was sure of it. Some other time I will tell you why." "I rather think Lowndes has told me already. Well?" "I held my tongue! I found out most on the promise of not trying to find out any more. I shall never forgive myself for making that promise--and keeping it." "Nay; thank God you did that!" "You don't know what I mean." "I think I do." "Every day I have felt a traitor to you!" "I think there has been a little morbid exaggeration," said Mr. Ringrose, with his worn smile. "What good could you have done? And to whom did you make this promise?" Harry told him with a red face. * * * * * The night was at an end. Milk-carts clattered in the streets; milkmen clattered on the stairs. Harry put out the single light that had been burning all night in the sober front of the many-windowed mansions; and in the early morning he took his father over the flat. The rooms had never seemed so few--so tiny. Mr. Ringrose made no remark until he was back in the only good one that the flat contained. "And your mother has made shift here all these years!" he exclaimed then, and the remorse in his voice had never sounded so acute. "Oh, no; we have only been here a year." "Where were you before?" "In a smaller flat downstairs." "A smaller one than this? God forgive me! I was not prepared for much; but from what I read I did expect more than this!"