sluice-gates of his mind and letting the sea of misery flow in, as it
were.

This, then, was the woman whom he had forgiven and loved and honoured
for all these years. This was the end and this the reward of all his
devotion and of all his hopes. And he smiled in bitterness of his pain
and self-contempt.

What was he to do? Go back to South Africa? He had not the heart for it.
Live here? He could not. His existence had been wasted. He had lost his
delusion--the beautiful delusion of his life--and he felt as though it
would drive him mad, as the man whose shadow left him went mad.

He rose from the chair, opened the window, and looked out. It was a
clear frosty night, and the stars shone brightly. For some while he
stood looking at them; then he undressed himself. Generally, for he was
different to most men, he said his prayers. For years, indeed, he had
not missed doing so, any more than he had missed praying Providence in
them to watch over and bless his beloved Madeline. But to-night he said
no prayers. He could not pray. The three angels, Faith, Hope, and Love,
whose whisperings heretofore had been ever in his ears, had taken wing,
and left him as he played the eavesdropper behind those blue velvet
curtains.

So he swallowed his sleeping-draught and laid himself down to rest.

* * * * *

When Madeline Croston heard the news at a dinner-party on the following
evening she was much shocked, and made up her mind to go home early. To