Some time elapsed before the announcement that the consent had been won.

“She wanted to all the while,” Edie said; “but her woman’s dignity kept her back.”

The girl was quite right, and it was only in a fit of mad despair that Myra had at last agreed in acknowledging the force of her cousin’s words.

“Percy says he thinks Malcolm is slowly dying, dear, and that your coming might save his life.”

“I’ll go,” Myra said, drawing in her breath with a hiss; and then to herself, “If he despises me for the act, well, I must bear it, too—while I am here.”

An evening was fixed, one on which Guest felt sure he would be able to catch his friend at the chambers, as being the preferable place, though, failing this, there was the lodging in Sarum Street.

There was no occasion for inventing subterfuges. The admiral that night dined at the club, and he troubled himself so little about the comings and goings of his daughter and niece that, if he returned, he would only consider that they had gone to some “at home,” and retire to his bed.

The consequence was that the carriage was in waiting at eight, and Guest arrived to act as guide.

“Strikes me, William,” said Andrews, the butler, to the attendant footman, “that our young lady would be doing more what’s right if she stopped at home.”

“Ay, she do look bad, sir.”

“She does, William,” said Andrew, with a little stress on the “does.”

“Twice over me and you has made preparations to have her married, and it strikes me that the next time we have to do with any public proceedings it will be to take her to her long home.”

“They’re a-coming down, Mr Andrews,” whispered the footman as, in evening dress and cloak, Guest brought down Myra, looking very white in her mufflings, and as if she were in some dream.

Guest handed her into the carriage, and returned for Edie, who was flushed and agitated.

“You won’t think any the worse of me for this, Percy, will you?” she whispered.

His reply was a tender pressure of the little hand which rested upon his arm.

Matters having been intrusted to Guest he directed the coachman to draw up beside the old court in Counsel Lane, and upon the footman opening the door, and the ladies being handed out, he looked at them in wonder, and asked his fellow-servant what game he thought was up as the trio passed into a gloomy looking alley, at whose corner was a robe-maker’s shop with two barristers’ wigs on blocks in the window.

But Guest knew what he was about. The courts and alleys about Benchers’ Inn were principally occupied by law writers, printers, and law stationers, and deserted enough of an evening to render the passage through of a couple of ladies in evening dress a matter likely to cause little notice, especially as they might be taking a short cut to one of the theatres.

Myra had taken Guest’s arm at a whisper from her cousin, who followed close behind, and, before long, the young barrister was well aware of her agitation and weakness, for, as they reached the upper entrance to the inn, she leaned more and more heavily upon his arm, and, after a few more paces, clung to him and stopped.

“Tired?” he said gently; “we are nearly there.”

She tried to speak, but no words would come; he could feel, though, that she was trembling violently, and Edie pressed to her side.

“Courage,” she murmured; and her voice seemed to calm Myra, who drew a deep breath, and tried to walk firmly the rest of the way; while Edie began to hope Stratton would be absent, for she dreaded the scene.

But fate was against her this time. The meeting she had struggled to bring about was to be, for Guest turned to her and whispered over his shoulder:

“There is a light in his room; he is at home.”

There was not a soul visible as they crossed the little, silent, ill-paved courtyard, with its few flickering gas lamps and the buildings around standing up blank and bare, for the most part solitary and deserted looking, for hardly a blind showed a light behind.

Half-way along by the railings, beneath the great plane trees, a man was standing; and, as he took a step out into the light of the nearest lamp, Guest felt that Myra was ready to drop. But a whispered word or two roused her to make the last effort, and the next minute they were in the doorway; with the stone stairs looking dim and strange, visible where they stood, but gradually fading into the darkness above.

Guest stopped short in obedience to a pressure upon his arm, and Myra supported herself by grasping the great wooden balustrade, while Edie uttered a sigh, and their escort began to feel some doubt as to the result of their mission, and wonder whether it was wise to have come, even going so far as to feel that he should not be sorry if his companions drew back.

Just then Edie whispered a few words to her cousin, who seemed to be spurred by them to fresh exertion, and, bearing hard upon Guest’s arm once more, she ascended the silent staircase to the first floor, where Guest led them a little aside into Brettison’s entry, while he went to reconnoitre.

All was dark, apparently, and he began............