telegram from Condy:


"Tension of situation relieved. Unconditional permission
obtained. Don't forget the shrimps."


It had been understood that Condy was to come to the flat on
Sunday afternoon to talk over final arrangements with Blix. But
as it was, Saturday evening saw him again at the Bessemers.

He had been down at his club in the library, writing the last
paragraphs of his diver's story, when, just as he finished,
Sargeant discovered him.

"Why, Conny, old man, all alone here? Let's go downstairs and have
a cigar. Hendricks and George Hands are coming around in half an
hour. They told me not to let you get away."

Condy stirred nervously in his chair. He knew what that meant.
He had enough money in his pockets to play that night, and in an
instant the enemy was all awake. The rowel was in his flank
again, and the scourge at his back. Sargeant stood there, the
well-groomed clubman of thirty; a little cynical perhaps, but a
really good fellow for all that, and undeniably fond of Condy.
But somewhere with the eyes of some second self Condy saw the girl
of nineteen, part child and part woman; saw her goodness, her
fine, sweet feminine strength as it were a dim radiance; "What's a
good man worth, Condy," she had said, "if he's not a strong man?"