Land was not so valuable when Queen Charlotte’s Road was built, and people who directed letters to their friends in that locality did not then place the letters “S.E.” at the bottom of the address. In fact, so low in price was the land that the speculative builder of that day—whose name, by the way, was not Jeremiah, or Jerry, for the houses are still standing—gave to each of the double-barrelled, or semi-detached cottages, a goodly piece of garden back and front; and, instead of piling up so many rooms by the side of a fire-escape sort of staircase, planted them, for the most part, side by side, and ran a good broad veranda along the front. He or his tenants planted trees as well—trees that once gave the straight broad road which ran down to the strawberry and rhubarb fields quite a countrified air.

The houses are there still, but many of them have been found substantial enough to bear a couple of floors on the top of the old structure; and some of the trees are still in their old places—vigorous old fellows of artful nature, who declined to trust their roots where they would be poisoned by the company’s gas mains or cut off by the picks and shovels of the navvies at work on the main drainage scheme. Consequently, they lived, though in a sad, decrepit, mutilated way; bent back, beheaded, carved and cropped—limbless dwarfs, for the most part, but always ready to put forth plenty of tender, green leaves in the spring-time, and to make a litter of the dead early in the autumn, while the country trees were still in full costume.

The road—which ran at right angles out of what was once a highly respectable retired-tradesman thoroughfare, with gardens rich in lilac and laburnum, now all busy shops—no longer lost itself in rhubarb gardens, but was carried on through miles of crowded streets; and it was through these, by an ingenious short cut and long fare process, that a hansom cab was being driven, till Queen Charlotte’s Road was reached, and a signal given for the man to stop by a semaphore use of Brettison’s gouty umbrella.

Stratton gazed wonderingly at the neat, green-verandahed cottage, half-hidden by the cropped trees and a well kept privet hedge, and noted as they entered the gate that there was a cane armchair just outside the French window, sheltered by the broad veranda, and that there were many wheel-marks on the gravel, suggestive of perambulators and children; but, in its well painted, clean windows, carefully tended garden, and general aspect of comfort, the place was anything but that where Stratton had expected to find an escaped convict confined.

Hardly a word had been said during the drive out, but Stratton had quite made up his mind what to do. He felt that he would be running counter to his friend’s wishes, and might seem unmerciful, but at the cost of any suffering to Myra he felt that it was the best thing, and would result in saving her future cares.

They were met at the door by the comely looking grey-haired woman who had played the part of nurse, and she drew back, smiling, to show them into a cheerful sitting room, well-furnished, with a canary on one side of the window and a particularly sage-looking starling in a wicker cage on the other.

“Ah, Dick!” said Brettison, rubbing his finger along the sides of the canary’s cage. “Well, Jack!”

The yellow bird burst into song, and the speckled starling uttered a sharp, jarring sound, and set up all its sharp-pointed, prickly looking plumes till it resembled a feathered porcupine.

“Not such an uncomfortable place for a man to live in, eh?” said Brettison cheerily. “Better than our dull, dusty chambers, eh?”

Stratton’s eyes were wandering about, noting a clay tobacco pipe on the hob, a jar on the table, and an easy-chair and spittoon by the fireplace, while flowers were in a vase on the table, and a couple of solemn looking, swollen-eyed, pompous goldfish sailed round and round their little crystal globe, as if it were their world, and nothing outside were of the least consequence, unless it might have been the fat cat, with fish-hook claws, half asleep where the sun made a patch on the stone outside the French window.

“Like this place better than the old street, eh, Mary?” said Brettison.

“Oh, indeed yes, sir! It’s quite like being in the country, and yet with all the advantages of town.”

“As the house agent said in his advertisement, eh? Well, where is Mr Cousin?”

“Only gone to get his morning shave, sir. He’ll be back soon.”

“Humph! Pretty well?”

“Oh, yes, sir; he’s nicely, thank you. Really, sir, I don’t think he wants the chair at all. It’s only because he likes it and has grown used to it.”

“Yes, yes; I suppose so. Creatures of habit, Mary. Want any money—any rates or taxes due? Coal cellar all right—want another ton?”

“Oh, no, sir, thank you. I haven’t near got through the last money yet.”

“Mary, you’re a paragon of economy,” said Brettison. “There, that will do now. I’ll sit down and have a chat with my friend till he comes back.”

There was a smile and a courtesy, and the woman withdrew.

“Sit down, my dear boy. No use to make a labour of our task. Not bad quarters, eh? Not to be changed lightly for the locks and bars of The Foreland, eh?”

Stratton looked at him reproachfully.

“Are you not taking all this too lightly?” he said.

“Oh, I hope not. But we shall see. I’m afraid that I should never have done for a judge, Malcolm. I should have let all the prisoners off with light sentences. Ah, here he comes!”

For there was the sound of wheels, a faint creaking, and from where Stratton sat, with his back to the window, he could hear the brushing of a light vehicle against the shrubs, as it was evidently being pushed up to the side door.

Stratton’s first impulse was to turn round and gaze out at the man he had come to see, but he mastered his desire and sat up rigidly, with his eyes fixed upon the door, and the scenes of the past flitting before him in a rapid sequence. Now he was listening to the flushed, coarse looking, brutalised scoundrel, boasting of his position and power to wreck the future of a beautiful, innocent woman; then they were talking fiercely together, and there was the struggle. And, again, that horrible scene—with the smoke gradually spreading through the room, while Barron lay prone upon the carpet, with a little thread of blood slowly trickling down from behind his ear. This gave place, as there was a rustling in the entry, to a picture of the moments when there was another terrible rustling as he dragged the body into the bath-closet and strove so hard to hide all traces of the catastrophe.

Then the door slowly opened, there was the thumping of a couple of sticks, and, in utter astonishment, Stratton was gazing at a grey-haired, cleanly shaven, heavy looking man, whose pallid face had a peculiar, inanimate aspect, and who came in, making no sign of recognition, but walked slowly across the room to the easy-chair by the fireside. He stood his two crutch-handled sticks by the mantelpiece, and subsided into the chair with a sigh of content, and began passing his hand over his smoothly shaven face, as if in search of stubble that the razor had missed.

Stratton was astounded. He had expected an angry start as a precursor to a fierce scene between them; but the man paid not the slightest heed to either of the visitors. There was a dreamy look in his lack-lustre eyes, and his heavy lips moved slightly, as if he were whispering to himself.

The man seemed to be imbecile, and Stratton grasped now his friend’s object in bringing them face to face. It was to show him how little so mindless a creature ought to influence the future of two people’s lives, and to consult with him as to what ought to be done.

Brettison watched his friend closely to see what effect the meeting had upon him, but directly after he was as keenly noting every movement and look of James Barron, to see if there was the slightest shade of recognition.

At last, apparently satisfied, he said aloud:

“Well, Mr Cousin, been for your morning visit?”

Barron seemed as if an appeal to his ear was the way to attract his attention, and not to the eyes; for he looked up with a slight display of animation, and he nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “been to get shaved—been to get shaved.”

He reached over to the fireplace and took the pipe, tapped it slowly on the hob, sat back, passed his hand over his face again in search of the stubble, and then leaned forward to get the jar from the table; after which he began to fill his pipe by pinching out a sufficient quantity from the jar, placing it in his left palm; and applying the opening of the bowl thereto, worked it round and round till the whole of the tobacco had been worked in, when, after a finishing pressure with one finger, he took a match-box from his pocket and began to smoke in placid c............