'Your advice?'
'What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- do
her worst!'
Shergold winced.
'We mustn't forget that it's all my fault.'
'Yes, just as it's your own fault you didn't die on the day of your birth!'
'I must raise the offer--'
'By all means; offer ten thousand. I suppose a jury would give her two
hundred and fifty.'
'But the scandal--the ridicule--'
'Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom and
save your life.'
'That's one way of looking at it. I half believe it might be effectual.'
He kept alone for most of the day. In the evening, from nine to ten, he
went upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunk
in a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short,
nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And when
the next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, a
waiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started for
London,' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean to
do is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of _that_ is
too much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a few
days.
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