as I had not to face hard work. I needed rest. For one in my
position there was, I saw well enough, only one way of getting it. I
took that way."

Ida had told this in a straightforward, unhesitating manner, not
meeting her companion's gaze, yet not turning away. One would have
said that judgments upon her story were indifferent to her; she
simply related past events. In a moment, she resumed.

"Do you remember, on the night when you first met me, a man
following us in the street?"

Waymark nodded.

"He was a friend of Alfred Bolter's, and sometimes we met him when
we went to the theatre, and such places. That is the only person I
ever hated from the first sight,--hated and dreaded in a way I
could not possibly explain."

"But why do you mention him?" asked Waymark. "What is his name?"

"His name is Edwards," returned Ida, pronouncing it as if the sound
excited loathing in her. "I had been living in this way for nearly
half-a-year, when one day this man called and came up to my
sitting-room. He said he had an appointment with Mr. Bolter, who
would come presently. I sat scarcely speaking, but he talked on.
Presently, Mr. Bolter came. He seemed surprised to find the other
man with me, and almost at once turned round and went out again.
Edwards followed him, saying to me that he wondered what it all
meant. The meaning was made clear to me a few hours after. There