the other thoughts away, the thoughts that came sometimes like the aftermath of a grisly, unrealisable nightmare.  Then he felt chilly, drew up the window, thrust his hands into his pockets from which he drew out a handsome cigarette case, struck a match, and smoked with vivid appreciation of the quality of the tobacco, examined the crest on the case as he put it away, and finally patted with surreptitious eagerness the flat morocco letter case in his inside pocket.

At the Junction, he made his way into the refreshment room and ordered a long whisky and soda, which he drank in a couple of gulps.  Then he hastened to the booking office and took a first-class ticket to Liverpool, and a few minutes later secured a seat in the long, north-bound express which came gliding up to the side of the platform.  He spent some time in the lavatory, washing, arranging his hair, straightening his tie, after which he made his way into the elaborate dining-car and found a comfortable corner seat.  The luxury of his surroundings soothed his jagged nerves.  The car was comfortably warmed, the electric light upon his table was softly shaded.  The steward who waited upon him was swift-footed and obsequious, and seemed entirely oblivious of Philip’s shabby, half-soaked clothes.  He ordered champagne a little vaguely, and the wine ran through his veins with a curious potency.  He ate and drank now and then mechanically, now and then with the keenest appetite.  Afterwards he smoked a cigar, drank coffee, and sipped a liqueur with the appreciation of a connoisseur.  A fellow passenger passed him an evening paper, which he glanced through with apparent interest.  Before he reached his journey’s end he had ordered and drunk another liqueur.  He tipped the steward handsomely.  It was the first well-cooked meal which he had eaten for many months.

Arrived at Liverpool, he entered a cab and drove to the Adelphi Hotel.  He made his way at once to the office.  His clothes were dry now and the rest and warmth had given him more confidence.

“You have a room engaged for me, I think,” he said, “Mr. Douglas Romilly.  I sent some luggage on.”

The man merely glanced at him and handed him a ticket.

“Number sixty-seven, sir, on the second floor,” he announced.

A porter conducted him up-stairs into a large, well-furnished bedroom.  A fire was blazing in the grate; a dressing-case, a steamer trunk and a hatbox were set out at the foot of the bedstead.

“The heavier luggage, labelled for the hold, sir,” the man told him, “is down-stairs, and will go direct to the steamer to-morrow morning.  That was according to your instructions, I believe.”

“Quite right,” Philip assented.  “What time does the boat sail?”

“Three o’clock, sir.”

Philip frowned.  This was his first disappointment.  He had fancied himself on board early in the day.  The prospect of a long morning’s inaction seemed already to terrify him.