Undoubtedly, the easiest thing was to bid a quiet good-by to the life he had so mismanaged.  He had never in old days been wedded to life.  He had learnt always to regard it rather as a necessary evil than as a thing desirable in itself.  Its momentary sweetness left it more bitter still.  There would be a physical pang, inevitable to a strong man, full of health.  But this he was ready to face; and now, in leaving life he would leave behind nothing he regretted.  The religious condemnation of suicide, which in former days would not have decided, but prevented such a discussion in his mind, now weighed little with him.  No doubt it would be an act of cowardice:  but he had been guilty of such a much more flagrant treachery and desertion, that the added sin seemed a small matter.  He felt that to boggle over it would be like condemning a murderer for trying to cheat the gallows.  But still, there was the natural dislike of an acknowledgment of utter defeat; and, added to this, the bitter reluctance a man of ability feels at the idea of his powers ceasing to be active, and himself ceasing to be.  The instinct of life was strong in him, though his reason seemed to tell him there was no way in which his life could be used.

“It’s better to go!” he exclaimed at last, after long hours of conflicting meditation.

It was getting late in the evening.  Eleven o’clock had struck, and he thought he would go to bed.  He was very tired and worn out, and decided to put off further questions till the next day.

After all, there was no hurry.  He knew the worst now; the blow had been struck, and only the dull, unending pain was with him—­and would be till the hour came when he should free himself from it.  He resolutely turned his mind away from Claudia.  He could not bear to think about her.  If only he could manage to think about nothing for an hour, sleep would come.

He rose to take his candle, but at the same moment a waiter opened the door.

“A gentleman to see you, sir.”

“To see me?  Who is it?”

“He says his name’s Ayre, and he hopes you’ll see him.”

“I can’t see him at this time of night,” said Stafford, with the petulance of weariness.  Why did the man bother him?

But Ayre had followed close on his messenger, and entered the room as Stafford spoke.

“Pray forgive me, Mr. Stafford,” he said, “for intruding on you so unceremoniously.”

Stafford received him with courtesy, but did not succeed in concealing his questioning as to the motive of the visit.

Ayre took the chair his host gave him.

“You think this a very strange proceeding on my part, I dare say?”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I had a wire from Eugene Lane.  I’m afraid I seem to be taking a liberty, and that’s a thing I hate doing.  But I was most anxious to see you.”

“Has Eugene any news?”

“What he says is this:  It has happened as we feared.  I am uneasy about him.  Can you see him to-night?”