VIII. MAX ARCHENFIELD

But we are never quite so much alone and so friendless as we think ourselves to be in times of overwhelming misfortune, and though Cecil Molyneux little dreamt of it, the hand of fate was already moving in her aid. The man who had been seated just inside the door replaced the notebook, in which he had been writing, in his pocket, and followed the rest of the crowd into the garden, and from thence along the road in the direction of the High street.

He was a man apparently young in years, with a skin smooth and fair as that of a girl. His flint-blue eyes were just a little hard, but they were limpid enough, and his little brown moustache was carefully trimmed. It was only when he removed his hat that Archenfield’s hair proclaimed the fact that he was considerably older than he looked, for his locks were absolutely white, and there were fine lines of care and suffering impressed indelibly on that high forehead of his. He was slight of build, with a certain suggestion of wiry strength, and he had the quiet assured manner of one who knows the world, and has seen human nature in most of its phases.

He crossed the road, until he came at length to an old house in the high street which appeared to be given