Radford Leicester stayed at the cottage among the Devonshire moors for several days. A more lonely place could not be well imagined. The cottage itself stood in a little dell where trees grew, and a moorland stream babbled. Early spring flowers were to be seen there, and the smell of the bursting new life of bracken and heather and willow bush was sweet beyond words; but the view from the cottage was such as one only finds in a moorland district. For miles nothing was to be seen but a wild waste of nearly uninhabited land. The few cottages were occupied by those who had reclaimed strips of waste land, and obtained a scanty living thereon. A month or two later the whole scene would be aglow with the bloom of furze and heather; but now it was grim and grey and, under a cloudy sky, forbidding. But Leicester was not sorry for this. The countryside, the loneliness, fitted in with his mood. He felt that the past was destroyed, and that the things which were once possible to him had come to an end. What had the future for him? What was he to do? That was the question he had to face.

Immediately after he had realised that Olive Castlemaine was lost to him for ever, he had conceived wild schemes of revenge. He wanted to make Olive suffer as he had suffered; he swore that he would humble her pride to the dust, and that he would win the wager which for the present had lost him the woman he had loved. But that was all over now. He had become degraded in the eyes of the nation. He had no respect for the morality of the political world; but however low it might be, there was a kind of moral standard which people demanded in their representatives. They were not troubled because he had drunk too much, it was that he had become intoxicated at the wrong time. He had actually appeared on a public platform in a state of drunken imbecility. He had given the opponents of his party the whip hand, and he had in all probability lost his party the election. That was his sin, and it would take years for them to forget it.

Besides, he was not the kind of man to go back and plead forgiveness. His pride forbade him. What? He, Radford Leicester, who had laughed at these clodhoppers, go back cap in hand, and plead with them to take him back! But what could he do? What had the future for him? That was the question he had to face. Hope gone, faith gone, purpose gone, while the old craving for whisky dogged him at every step, what was there for him to do? Life was a mockery, a great haggard failure! Why should he seek to prolong it?

And so he spent his days amidst the loneliness of the moors, thinking and brooding. He saw no newspapers, received no letters, had no visitors. He had told the old lady who kept the cottage that he wanted a week or two's quiet, and freedom from the bustle of the world. Besides, he had a big problem to solve, and he had come there to solve it. He gave his name as Robert Baxter; it was the first that came to his lips, and he spoke of himself as keenly interested in sociology. It happened that old Mrs. Sleeman had not the slightest idea what sociology meant, but she had had several gentlemen in the past who had come to lodge with her; they had called themselves artists, and naturalists, and they had come pretty much in the same way as Leicester had come. They had been easy to please, they had paid her well, and when they had left had promised not only to come again, but to recommend her house to their friends. His advent therefore was quite welcome to her, and as he had no tastes that were difficult to satisfy, she hoped he would stay for a long while.

Mrs. Sleeman was a cheerful old lady who managed her house and her husband with great tact. It was also said that her influence was very great at the little Bible Christian chapel to which she went on Sundays. John Sleeman, her husband, was but little in evidence. He worked on his little farm patch through the day, and in the evenings spent his time in the little kitchen, which to Leicester was a sealed chamber.

No newspaper was brought into the cottage, and letters came rarely. Indeed, the postman never came at all. By mutual agreement it was arranged that when a letter came for Mr. Sleeman, it should be left at the house of Mrs. Maddern, who lived close to the high road. Occasionally Mr. and Mrs. Sleeman harnessed their little horse and drove to the market town, which lay several miles across the moors, but this was only on very rare occasions.

As a consequence, therefore, Leicester's life was completely isolated. Day after day passed without any event happening to break the monotony of life, and he spent his time roaming over the moors trying as best he could to face the problem of his life, and to fight the despair which was gnawing at his heart.

He knew nothing of what was happening in the country; and he asked no questions. He was sick of the world, and sick of life. The great question was, what should he do? Should he commit suicide, and thus put an end to an existence which to him had no meaning or purpose, or should he go somewhere and begin anew? His nature, in spite of his beliefs, rebelled against the former. He could not bring himself, little as he cared for life, to destroy it by his own hand. As for the latter alternative, the old question reiterated itself, where should he go? what should he do?

He loathed the thought of going back to London, to live the life of a useless parasite amidst clubs and club loungers. The political door was closed against him, and even if it were not, he felt he could not enter it now. He had an income sufficient for all his needs, and as a consequence had no need to work for his living. It would have been better for him if he had. Humanly speaking, there are few better moral tonics than work.

Looming larger than all other questions was this: Had he for ever lost Olive Castlemaine? Had he won her only to lose her? But for the determination which in spite of his despair lay at the back of his mind, I imagine he would have put an end to an existence which at times became almost unbearable.

He was pondering over all these things for the hundredth time one day as he was walking across the moors alone. The clouds hung heavily in the sky, while occasionally gusts of cold wind, accompanied by driving rain, reminded him that winter had not yet come to an end. As he walked and thought, a storm had gathered, and he saw that the sky threatened a downpour of rain.

"What do I care?" he laughed bitterly. "I feel like old King Lear. Nothing is wanting now but Tom Fool to make the picture complete. 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind!'"

The rain fell in torrents, and in spite of his wild mood, he made his way to a lonely farmhouse in order to find shelter. By the time he reached it, his clothes were soaked with rain.

He stood in a cart-shed, and watched the flood as it fell. The few trees that grew around the farmstead looked drear and forbidding; away in the distance the hills seemed to smoke.

"And this is life," he laughed. "We are born, we suffer, we make fools of ourselves, and we die."

And yet he knew it was not life as it might be. If he could have had Olive Castlemaine by his side, he could have been a happy man. But she had driven him from her presence, she had commanded him never to speak to her again.

"Won't 'ee come in by the vire, zur? You mus' be fine 'n' wet."

"Thank you," said Leicester, in reply to the invitation of the buxom farmer's wife. He entered the large farm kitchen, at one end of which a huge wood fire was burning.

"Why, you be fair streamin'," said the woman. "Zet cloas by the vire, and dry yerzelf. Do 'ee then. You'll catch yer death ef you doan't."

"Well, there'd be one less in the world," said Leicester, "and as the world is sufficiently populated, that would not matter."

"Fer shaame, zur. You be jokin'."

"I never joke," replied Leicester. "Still, if I died, there'd be the trouble of burying me, and that would be a pity."

"Fer shaame, I d' zay," said the kindly woman; "what would your mother zay, ef she 'eerd 'ee?"

"Haven't got a mother."

"Yer vather, then?"

"No father either," said Leicester. "If he were alive I'm inclined to think he'd say, 'Die, and have done with it.'"

"But you've got brothers, or sisters, or a wife, or a sweetheart?" She said this not so much for the sake of proving that he was in the wrong, but because, like the rest of her sex, especially those who live in lonely places, she desired to know something about this stranger.

Leicester shook his head.

"Well, you be in a bad way."

"Exactly," said Leicester, "I am." He yielded to a sudden impulse. "Now I put it to you, ma'am," he said, "suppose you had no friends, no one who cared for you; suppose you found the world a dirty sort of place, and found no pleasure in living, what would you do?"

"Do! I shud git somebody that ded care for me."

"I've tried, but failed."

"Ain't 'ee got a sweetheart, then?"

"Not one."

"Is there no one that you do like?"

"Yes," he said, "but she's thrown me overboard."

"Gived 'ee the sack, you do main?"

"Exactly."

"Why then, zur, maakin' so bould?"

He was in a reckless mood, and in a way he could not understand, the buxom, kind-hearted woman led him to speak.

"Because I'm a bad 'un."

"Nonsense."

"Fact, I assure you. A right down bad 'un."

"And es she very good?"

"Terribly good, terribly proud, and terribly unforgiving."

"And ded she give 'ee the sack 'cause you wos so bad?"

"More because I hurt her pride, I think."

"Ah, I zee."

"Come now, under these circumstances, what would you do?"

"I'd begin by bein' a good man, and laive the rest to God."

"God!" and Leicester laughed.

"Why, doan't 'ee believe in God?"

"I think I believe in the devil, if that's any good."

"Then, zur, I'd kill the devil."

"Can't; I love him too much."

"What, love the devil?"

"I hug him to my heart. He served me a nasty trick the other day, but I stick to him all the same. Yes, he's my only friend. He's nearly always with me. When I'm friendly with him, he helps me to forget. All the same, I'm tired of him in a way. Now, then, what would you do?"

"The devil is allays our enemy, zur, allays. You must kill 'ee or you're done for."

The conversation was out of her depth, but she felt sure she was saying what was right.

"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Leicester, with a bitter laugh. "And yet I don't know. What do you think he's been persuading me to do this afternoon?"

"Summin' bad, you may depend, zur."

"I don't know. You know that big pool up among the moors. It has a kind of fascination for me, and the devil always meets me there. He is always telling me that it is very peaceful and quiet at the bottom of the pool."

"What, you d' main Crazzick Pool? It ain't got no bottom to et. Et's the devil's pool, tha's wot 'tes."

"Exactly. Well, he tempts me to walk into it, and sink, and sink, and find rest and peace."

"You doan't git no peace except in Christ, zur," said Mrs. Pethick, who was a class-leader among the Bible Christians.

Leicester looked at the dame's kindly face and wondered. Had this simple, homely, kindly-faced woman learned any secret unknown to him? To say the least, the question interested him.

"Look here," he said, "you don't mind speaking to a poor devil like I am quite honestly, do you? In fact, it's no use speaking to me at all, unless you do speak quite honestly, for I can detect a lie in a minute. Do you really believe that Christ does help you?"

"Do I believe et? I'm zure, zur. Why, when I'm tempted to do wrong, to think of Christ do 'elp me. Whenever I d' 'ave bad, wicked thoughts, I d' jist think of Him, and they do go, zur. For zure they do."

"And He gives you peace, does He?" said Leicester half mockingly, half seriously.

"Iss, zur, 'e do fer zure. I wudden zay zo ef I wasn't zackly zure. A paice which I caan't git no other way. Why, when I be comin' home from class-mitten' by myzelf, I git feared zumtimes, when tes dark; for the way es loanly. But I d' talk weth Jesus oal the way, and then – well, zur, the loanly road ez vull of light."

The mocking laugh left Leicester's lips as she spoke: it was impossible to doubt what she said.

"But there," went on Mrs. Pethick, with all a woman's tact, "you be could and wisht, you be. I'll git a cup ov tay for 'ee, and zum bread and craim. You c'n jist raid the paaper while I be gone."

He sat down close by the roaring wood fire, and wondered. Why should this simple woman's faith be denied to him? He picked up the paper she had offered him; it was the first he had seen since he left Taviton. The first words he read were these: "New candidate selected for the Taviton division."

He read through the article with strange interest. It seemed to him as though it spoke of some one else. It referred to the unfortunate selection the party had made, but stated that their mistake had been rectified in the selection of a local man, whose career was known to all. "As for the man who has done the party so much harm," concluded the article, "we do not know what has become of him. He left the town in disgrace, since which time no one has seen him. Endeavours have been made to trace his whereabouts, but in vain. Inquiries have been made at his old haunts in London, but no one has seen him there. It is a sad pity that a young man of such brilliant parts should end his career in such a way, but for our own part we may say that we are well rid of him. He brought no honour, or credit, either to our party or our county, and although some of his friends speak of him as having suicidal tendencies, we sincerely hope that he may repent of his past life, and begin anew in another country where he is unknown."

Leicester threw down the paper with a laugh. It was only the effusion of a local journalist who did not know the A B C of his trade, but it amused him.

"Begin a new life in another country where he is unknown." The words haunted him. Why not, after all? Perhaps – but the thoughts which flashed into his mind refused to take definite shape.

Mrs. Pethick brought him some tea and bread and cream.

"Ther' now, you be nearly dry now," she said; "zet up to the table, and 'ave zum tay. 'Twill do 'ee good, my dear."

Mrs. Pethick had spent her childhood in Cornwall, and had not forgotten some of the Cornish expressions.

"This is beautiful tea," said Leicester presently.

"Iss, ted'n zo bad. As Mrs. Maddern d' zay to me, 'Mrs. Pethick,' she do zay, 'nobody but you do buy the best tay.'"

"Mrs. Pethick," said Leicester, half quizzically, "do you believe the devil can be killed?"

"Not killed, my dear, at laist not by we, but we c'n drive en away."

"How, Mrs. Pethick?"

"Prayer, zur; prayer."

Leicester laughed.

"'Tes true, zur. Ther's 'ope fer the wust. As I zed to Franky Flew at the last revival, I zed, 'Franky,

'While the lamp holds out to burn,
The vilest sinner may return!'"

"And what then, Mrs. Pethick?"

"Why, then you become a new man, zur."

A little while later he left the house. Of course it was all nonsense, nevertheless the simple woman's talk made him better. The storm had now gone, and the moors were bathed in evening sunlight. It was a wonderful panorama which stretched out before him. The moors, which two hours before were dark and forbidding, were now wondrous in their beauty. And sunlight had done it all! Sunlight!

All through the evening he sat and thought. It seemed, from the look in his eyes, that a new purpose had come into his life. The next day he left his lonely lodgings, and found his way back to London. He went to a part of the city which was far away from his old haunts, and to which he was an utter stranger. No one recognised him, no one knew him in the little hotel to which he went. He gave his name as Robert Baxter, as he had given it to the old woman on the moors. Why he had come to London he knew not, except that a great longing had come into his heart to be again in the midst of the great surging life of the city. Nevertheless he stayed in his room at the hotel. After a pretence at eating, he picked up a newspaper. He glanced through it carelessly. He had lost interest in life. The reports concerning the General Election did not interest him. What mattered which set of puppets were at Westminster? The whole business was an empty mockery. Presently, however, a paragraph chained his attention:

"No news is yet to hand concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Radford Leicester. Many suppose that he has left the country, while some are afraid that the hints he dropped to the hotel proprietor at Taviton were serious."

He had no idea that the London newspapers would comment on his disappearance. He thought that he had dropped out of the life of the world, and that no one cared. Presently he read the remainder of the paragraph. Up to this time he had never thought of taking any particular trouble about hiding his identity. The matter of giving another name was mere acting on impulse.

He rang the bell, and ordered a cab. "It is lucky I remember his address," he said to himself, "lucky too that he is as silent as an oyster."

A little later he drove up to a house in one of the many quiet London squares. It was quite dark, and he had pulled the collar of his coat high up around his neck and face. No one recognised him as he entered, but when he walked into a dimly lit room, an old man said to him: "I knew it. You were not such a fool as to throw up the sponge."

After this Leicester talked to the old man for a long time. When he left the house, the light of purpose was in his eyes, although, had a close observer seen him, that observer would have said that there was also much doubt and irresolution.

CHAPTER XVI
A GRIM JOKE

A week later Leicester was still in London. He had removed from the little hotel to which he had at first gone, and had taken a room in one of those old-fashioned enclosures which still remain in the heart of London. Here he fended for himself, the room being cleaned by an old deaf and nearly blind woman, who was glad to earn a few shillings a week in this way. He saw no one. Throughout the day he kept in his solitary chamber; he only went out at night, and then after the city had gone to sleep. What was in his mind it was difficult to say.

One night after midnight he went out alone. The theatres had all emptied themselves, and the streets, save for an occasional passer-by, were deserted. The lights still burned, but to him it looked like a city of the dead. The echoing footfalls which occasionally reached his ears sounded like the steps of some ghostly visitant rather than of a being of flesh and blood.

He presently came to the Law Courts, and walked in the direction of Ludgate Hill. The great buildings rose up stately and grand at his side, but they reminded him rather of a stupendous monument of the dead than of a battle-ground where keen intellects and grave wisdom waged war.

"Justice," he thought. "What justice is there in the world? What do either judges, or barristers, or juries care about justice? The whole world stinks with lies and injustice and cruelty. And yet why do I prate about these things? What is justice? Is there any such thing? What are all our thoughts but blind gropings after a phantom?"

The moon shone clearly overhead, and the spring air was clear and sweet even in the heart of the city; nevertheless there was a cold bite in the wind which found its way across the open spaces.

"As though Anything cared?" he went on musing. "What does it matter whether one is good or bad, idle or industrious? Some work and some play, some are rich and some are poor. Well, what's the odds? We are only like gnats, born when the sun rises, and die when it goes down. The worst of it is that this beastly little race leaves others of the same species behind. And so the farce will go on, until the earth grows cold and the race dies. Well, and what then? Whether one dies young or old, what does it affect? Who cares? Nothing cares."

He looked up at the great dome of blue, and saw here and there a star.

"As though, if there is Anything at the back of all things, the Force which caused those worlds could care for a paltry little earthworm like I am!"

He laughed aloud, and then shuddered at the sound of his own voice. The city seemed like some huge phantom which had no real existence.

He turned into one of the many ways which lead from Fleet Street to the river. If possible, it seemed more silent than ever here. The lights were less brilliant, life seemed to be extinct.

"Oh, what a coward, a poor whining coward I am," he said. "I think, and brood, and drink, and dream, and curse; but I do nothing. I, who used to boast of my will-power and my determination. I live like a rat in a hole; I dare not come out and show myself, and I dare not put an end to the dirty business called life, because I have a sort of haunting fear that I should not make an end of myself even although this carcase of mine should rot."

Presently he reached the Embankment, and he walked to the wall which bounded the river and looked over. The tide was going out. The dark, muddy river, carrying much of the refuse of London, rolled on towards the sea. Yet the waters gleamed bright, both in the light of the moon as well as in those of the lamps which stood by its banks, but the water was foul all the same, foul with the offal of a foul city. He turned away from it with a shudder.

"Why haven't I the pluck to take the plunge, instead of being the whining, drivelling idiot I am?" he cried. "Nothing cares, and nothing would happen – except nothingness."

He walked along the Embankment. "And yet I told her that I could be a man. After all, was she not right? What if she were unjust? Was such a creature as I am fit to be the husband of a pure woman? See the thing I have become in less than a month. Might I not, if I had married her, have become tired of my new rôle, and drifted? Well, if I had I should have dragged her with me. Did I really love her? Did I not love myself all the time? It was not of her I thought. It was all of my miserable, sordid little self. Still, if there is an Almighty, He made a mistake in treating me so! But there, as though an Almighty cared about such as I. If He does, He regards us all as a part of a grim joke."

"I'nt got a bit a bacca on yer, 'ave yer, guv'nor?"

A man rose from a seat as he spoke, and shivered. At the other end of the seat lay a woman asleep.

"I cawn't sleep, I'm so bloomin' cold," went on the man, "and I'm just dyin' for a bit a bacca."

"Why do you try to sleep here?" asked Leicester.

"'Cause I in't got no weers else, guv'nor. That's why. Besides, my hinsides is empty, and yer cawn't sleep when yer empty. Tell yer, I'm fair sick on it."

"Why don't you make an end of it?"

"Wot yer mean?"

Leicester pointed to the river.

"Would for tuppence," said the man.

Leicester put his hand in his pocket and took out the first coin he felt. It was a two-shilling piece.

"Here's a dozen tuppences," he said; "now let's see if you've got the pluck."

The man snatched at the coin, examined it in the light of the lamp, and spat on it. Then he went to the woman and shook her.

"Cum on, Mord," he said.

"Weer?" said the woman sleepily.

"Daan ter ole Jerry's doss-aas."

"We cawn't; we in't got fo'pence."

"Yus, we 'as; a swell hev chucked me two bob. Cum on."

The woman rose and prepared to follow the man.

"But you told me – "

"That I'd do it for tuppence, but not fer two bob, guv'nor. Goo'-night, and thenk yer."

Leicester laughed. He had not expected the man to throw himself into the river; indeed, had he attempted it, he would most likely have stopped him; but he laughed all the same. Two shillings meant food and a warm place to lie, and the tramp clung to life.

"We are all such cowards," he said, as he walked on towards Blackfriars Bridge. The great space outside Blackfriars underground railway station was empty. Not a soul was to be seen. He crossed to the road at the end of the bridge, and stood at the top of the steps which led down to the river.

"I'll look at it closer," he said. "It'll be fun to stand and watch the dirty stuff sweep on to the sea."

He went down the granite steps which led to the river, and crept under the barrier that was placed halfway down. It felt much colder as he came close to the water, and the sudden roll of the river sounded awesome. A few steps from the bottom he stopped.

"If there was any good in living!" he said. "But there isn't. What lies before me? I am a hopeless, purposeless, whisky-sodden fool. There's nothing to live for."

He went nearer the river.

His attention was drawn to a shapeless something which the river had swept to the bottom step, and which, as the tide had receded, had left lying there. He went closer to it and examined it.

It was the dead body of a man.

He turned quickly and retraced his steps, and then stopped.

"He's had the pluck to do it," he muttered; "he must have thrown himself in farther up the river. The tide has washed him there and left him stranded. Poor beggar, I wonder who he is?"

He went down again and looked at the gruesome thing lying there. He lay in the shadow of the bridge, and the moon's rays did not reach him.

"I wonder who he is," repeated Leicester.

Almost mechanically, and with a steady hand, he struck a match and examined the body.

"It might have been me," he muttered. "About my own age and build. His clothes are good, too. I suppose this thing was what is called a gentleman." He laughed quietly and grimly. A sort of gruesome curiosity possessed him, and a wild fancy flashed into his mind. "I wonder if he's left any mark of his identity?" he said, whereupon he lit another match and made a closer examination. Yes, the thing's hands belonged to what was once a man of leisure. It is true they were discoloured and swollen, but they had been carefully manicured. Without a shudder he examined the pockets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in them – not even a pocket-handkerchief. The shirt was fastened at the wrists by a pair of gold sleeve-links, but they bore no marks of any sort. He unfastened the links and looked at the inside of the cuffs, but there was no name written on them. He fastened them again. He examined the dead man's collar. Again it was without name. Evidently the suicide had taken trouble to leave no traces of his identity behind.

He took another look at the face. Yes, it might have been himself, if he had been in the water a long time. It was the face of a young man, as far as he could judge, between thirty and forty. It was clean-shaven, too, just as his own was. It was true it was much distorted and discoloured; evidently the poor wretch had been in the water for days.

Almost mechanically he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. The light was bright enough to show him that his own name was in the corner.

"It might be me, it might be me," he repeated again and again.

There was a sort of fascination in the thought.

"If twenty-four hours ago, or forty-eight hours ago, I had thrown myself into the river, and ever since had been rolled about by the muddy waters, I should be like that, just like that. Only he is nameless; there are no means of identifying him. Well, what's the odds?"

He started, as though some one had struck him.

"Why shouldn't it be?"

In a moment he saw the possibilities of the thought.

"Yes, why shouldn't it? To-morrow morning some one will come down these steps, and then the police will take the poor wretch to a mortuary, after which there will be the usual fiasco of an inquest. As there are no marks by which to identify him, hosts of stupid questions will be asked. After that – he will be forgotten, unless some one comes to claim him. But why shouldn't I become – ?"

His eyes flashed with a new light. He was no longer cold and calm. He was eager, excited.

He listened eagerly. All was silent, save for a rumbling noise which he heard some distance away. He felt his pockets carefully. Yes, here was an old letter; it would do perfectly. He soaked it in the muddy waters of the river and crumpled it. It had the appearance of being in the river for days. He put the letter in the dead man's pocket.

Again he wiped his hands, and listened. Then he took the handkerchief he had used and dipped it in the river. It became saturated with the waters of the Thames. Yes, that would strengthen the chain of identity. He put the handkerchief in another pocket of the dead man's clothes. Was there anything else he needed to do? No. He had examined the poor wretch, and there was nothing on him by which it could be known who he was. Now, the mystery would be made clear. A letter addressed to Radford Leicester, Esq., was in his pocket; a handkerchief also bearing his name would be found on his person. He gave the body a parting glance and came up the steps.

"Poor beggar, I wonder who he is, after all?" he said. "Anyhow, if there is any secret to learn, the thing that was he has learned it. He had the pluck, I hadn't; but, after all, it has given me an idea."

By the time he reached the top step he was to all outward appearances calm again. For a moment he hesitated, and then walked up New Bridge Street.

A policeman passed him and gave him a suspicious glance, but, seeing a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man, said nothing.

"Good-night, constable."

"Good-night, sir; out late."

"Yes, rather." He was tempted to tell the man what he had seen, but did not yield to it. It was far better to say nothing. So they passed on, he towards Ludgate Circus, the policeman towards Blackfriars Bridge.

When he reached his solitary room he sat down and began to think. What he had done appeared to him in the light of a grim joke, and he wondered what the result of it would be. There was something intensely interesting in the thought of what would be said when the body was found on the following morning. He was in a strange humour, and the events of the night had fallen in with it. Ever since the day on which he had left Taviton he had desired to hide himself from those who had hitherto known him, and the feeling had grown as the days went by. Why should he who, according to the world's standards, had disgraced himself at Taviton, appear before the empty-headed gossiping crew he had known? He had played his old acquaintances a trick now. What would they say when they heard the news?