at the scar on the wall where a corner of the trunk had bitten into the plaster. The wallpaper was a dull red, and Sorrell, pondering the problem, bethought him of a little plaster of Paris and some red ink. The rent in the wall was a wound, but an honourable wound.
Returning to the lounge hall he came upon George Buck leaning through the office window, talking to Miss Murdoch the hotel clerk. The pink, baldish patch on the crown of his head showed between his two red and prominent ears.
Sorrell began tidying up the papers and magazines. He was waiting for Buck to discover him and to ask the obvious question, and Sorrell was ready with the answer.
Presently, Buck withdrew his blue bulk from the narrow window. His eyes saw Sorrell indefatigably busy, and the gallant glimmer melted out of them. They seemed to stare.
"Get that up to number thirty-five, Saul?"
"I did."
Sorrell gave him a queer and twisted smile, glancing round over his shoulder, and he saw that his enemy was puzzled.
Mary Marks knocked at the door of Mr. Roland's sitting-room.
"Come in."
Roland was sitting on the music-stool, his hands resting on the keyboard. They were very brown hands. Beyond him was the open window between curtains of old gold; the window framed a stretch of grass, two beds full of purple Darwin tulips, and the trunks of two old trees. The atmosphere of room and garden seemed to merge, save that the old gold of the room was of a deeper quality than the yellow downpour of the spring sunlight.
"May I speak to you, sir?"
"Why certainly; come in."
The Chinese carpet made Mary Marks think of a bed of flowers. A shame to tread on it! She was sensitive to all beautiful things, and her hard exterior was a wall that had been built to protect and to hide what was left to her of her love of beauty. She closed the door. Her eyes looked across the room at Thomas Roland, and in them was a
