hot, he granted himself the indulgence of sitting still instead of
walking, and certainly to-day the least lenient judge might say that
there were strong extenuating circumstances in his favour. For the heat
of the past week had been piling itself up, like the heaped waters of
flood and this afternoon was intense in its heat, its stillness and
sultriness. It had been sunless all day, and all day the blanket of
clouds that beset the sky had been gathering themselves into blacker and
more ill-omened density. There would certainly be a thunderstorm before
morning, and the approach of it made Mr. Taynton feel that he really had
not the energy to walk. By and by perhaps he might be tempted to go in
quest of coolness along the sea front, or perhaps later in the evening he
might, as he sometimes did, take a carriage up on to the downs, and come
gently home to a late supper. He would have time for that to-day, for
according to arrangement his partner was to drop in about half past nine
that evening. If he got back at nine, supposing he went at all, he would
have time to have some food before receiving him.

He sat in a pleasant parquetted room looking out into the small square
garden at the back of his house in Montpellier Road. Big awnings
stretched from the window over the broad gravel path outside, and in
spite of the excessive heat the room was full of dim coolness. There was
but little furniture in it, and it presented the strongest possible
contrast to the appointments of his partner's flat with its heavy
decorations, its somewhat gross luxury. A few water-colours hung on the
white walls, a few Persian rugs strewed the floor, a big bookcase with
china on the top filled one end of the room, his writing-table, a half
dozen of Chippendale chairs, and the chintz-covered sofa where he now lay
practically completed the inventory of the room. Three or four bronzes, a
Narcissus, a fifteenth-century Italian St. Francis, and a couple of
Greek reproductions stood on the chimney-piece, but the whole room