Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from the shadows side by side, a
well-matched couple, animated yet statuesque in their calmness and
in their pallor. She had let go his wrist. On catching sight of
Renouard the Editor exclaimed:

"What--you here!" in a quite shrill voice.

There came a dead pause. All the faces had in them something
dismayed and cruel.

"He's the very man we want," continued the Editor. "Excuse my
excitement. You are the very man, Renouard. Didn't you tell me
that your assistant called himself Walter? Yes? Thought so. But
here's that old woman--the butler's wife--listen to this. She
writes: All I can tell you, Miss, is that my poor husband directed
his letters to the name of H. Walter."

Renouard's violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a general
murmur and shuffle of feet. The Editor made a step forward, bowed
with creditable steadiness.

"Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the bottom of my
heart on the happy--er--issue. . . "

"Wait," muttered Renouard irresolutely.

The Editor jumped on him in the manner of their old friendship.
"Ah, you! You are a fine fellow too. With your solitary ways of
life you will end by having no more discrimination than a savage.