Piers found himself gripping a limp, inanimate object, and with a sudden sense of overpowering horror he desisted.  He stumbled up, staggering slightly, and drew a long, hard breath.  His heart was racing like a runaway engine.  All the blood in his body seemed to be concentrated there.  Almost mechanically he waited for it to slow down.  And, as he waited, the madness of that wild rush through hell fell away from him.  The demons that had driven him passed into distance.  He was left standing in a place of desolation, utterly and terribly alone.

* * * * *

A trickle of cold water ran down Tudor’s chin.  He put up a hesitating, groping hand, and opened his eyes.

He was lying in the arm-chair before the fire in which he had spent the evening.  The light danced before him in blurred flashes.

“Hullo!” he muttered thickly.  “I’ve been asleep.”

He remained passive for a few moments, trying, not very successfully, to collect his scattered senses.  Then, with an effort that seemed curiously laboured, he slowly sat up.  Instinctively, his eyes went to the clock above him, but the hands of it seemed to be swinging round and round.  He stared at it bewildered.

But when he tried to rise and investigate the mystery, the whole room began to spin, and he sank back with a feeling of intense sickness.

It was then that he became aware of another presence.  Someone came from behind him and, stooping, held a tumbler to his lips.  He looked up vaguely, and as in a dream he saw the face of Piers Evesham.

But it was Piers as he had never before seen him, white-lipped, unnerved, shaking.  The hand that held the glass trembled almost beyond control.

“What’s the matter?” questioned Tudor in hazy wonder.  “Have you been boozing, or have I?”

And then, his perceptions growing stronger, he took the glass from the quivering hand and slowly drank.

The draught steadied him.  He looked up with more assurance, and saw Piers, still with that deathly look on his face, leaning against the mantelpiece for support.

“What on earth’s the matter?” said Tudor sharply.

He felt for his glasses, found them dangling over his shoulder, and put them on.  One of them was cracked across, an illuminating fact which accounted for much.  He looked keenly at Piers for several quiet seconds.

At length with a shade of humour he spoke.  “Here endeth the first lesson!  You’d make a better show if you had a drink also.  I’m sorry there’s only one glass.  You see, I wasn’t expecting any friends to-night.”

Piers started a little and straightened himself; but his face remained bloodless, and there was a curiously stunned look in his eyes.  He did not attempt to utter a word.

Tudor drained his glass, sat a moment or two longer, then got up.  There were brandy and water on his writing-table.  He poured out a stiff dose, and turned to Piers with authority.