His late pursuit of the female had, in some coordinating fashion, put him on the track of the feminine. The convulsion in his mind caused him to grasp at elusive supports. Remorse craved atonement. The many astounding factors in his situation, when he grew tired of considering each in turn, all combined to produce a queer, unnatural sentimentality. Without the dew of womanly sympathy, life seemed parched with sudden aridness. He lay awake that night, deluding himself into the longing for a lost paradise. He made magnanimous resolves. He would win back Irene, humble himself before Hugh. The next day he started for London, his head swimming with sick and angry fantasies. And meanwhile, in her darkened room at Nice, Minna was regarding the mad betrayal of her secret in dazed and despairing terror. ***** Two days afterwards, Gerard paused in the doorway at the foot of the familiar staircase in the Temple, where Hugh’s chambers were situated, and scanned the list of names. The one he sought was still there. He hesitated for a moment, biting the ends of his moustache. His last meeting with Hugh had been unpleasant. The memory galled his pride. Perhaps it would be better to carry out an alternative plan, and obtain knowledge of Irene’s whereabouts from Harroway, or from Miss Beechcroft, her aunt. His heart failed him. He winced in anticipation before the steel-blue of Hugh’s eyes and the supercilious tones of his voice. Then suddenly conscious of the lack of moral courage, he threw angrily away the stump of cigar he was holding in his fingers, and mounted the stairs. The oak was unsported. He knocked; a voice bade him enter. Hugh’s clerk rose from a paper-heaped desk, and advanced to meet the visitor. “Is Mr. Colman in?” “No, sir,” said the clerk. “He hasn’t been gone more than half an hour.” “When will he be back?” “Monday morning, sir. This is Saturday. He doesn’t often come to chambers on Saturday afternoons.” “Do you know where I can find him?” asked Gerard, growing impatient. The clerk did know. Lawyer’s clerks are certain about most things. “Mr. Colman is at home, at his private residence.” “Where is that?” “Are you a client, sir?” asked the clerk, with an air of importance. “No, confound you,” exclaimed Gerard. “My name is Merriam. Perhaps you have heard of it. What’s your master’s address?” “Fifty-two Windsor Terrace, Hyde Park, sir,” replied the clerk promptly.