he more shrank from the thought of being infected with Joseph Snowdon’s baseness or despised himself for his attitude to Jane. Despicable entirely had been his explanations to Michael, but how could he make them more sincere? To tell the whole truth, to reveal Joseph’s tactics, would be equivalent to taking a part in the dirty contest; Michael would probably do him justice, but who could say how far Joseph’s machinations were becoming effectual? The slightest tinct of uncertainty in the old man’s thought, and he, Kirkwood, became a plotter like the others, meeting mine with countermine.
“There will be no possibility of perfect faith between men until there is no such thing as money! H’m, and when is that likely to come to pass?”
Thus he epigrammatised to himself one evening, savagely enough, as with head bent forward he plodded to Red Lion Street. Some one addressed him; he looked up and saw Jane. Seemingly it was a chance meeting, but she put a question at once almost as though she had been waiting for him. “Have you seen Pennyloaf lately, Mr. Kirkwood?”
