I made, of course, no mention of the object of my visit to New York and Jerry gave me no confidences.  He went to town Tuesday and Wednesday, returned tired and sullen.  And the next night after a long period alone in the study in which I had managed at last to get my mind on my work, I found Jerry in the dining-room quite drunk with the brandy bottle beside him.  He was ugly and disposed to be quarrelsome, but I got him to bed at last, suffering myself no graver damage than a bruised biceps where his great fingers had grasped me.  Jack Ballard’s remark about Frankenstein was no joke.  That night a monster Jerry was; from the bottom of my heart I pitied him.

I argued with Jerry in the morning, pleaded with him and threatened to leave the Manor, but he was so contrite, so earnest in his promises of reformation that I couldn’t find it in my heart to go.  I proposed a trip to Europe, but he refused.

“Not now, Roger,” he demurred.  “I’ve got to stay here now.  Just stick around with me for awhile, won’t you, old chap?”

“Will you stop drinking?” I asked.

“Brandy?”

“Everything.”

“H—­m.  You’re the devil of a martinet.”

“Will you?”

It was the supreme test of what remained of my influence over him.  His head ached, I’m sure, for he looked a wreck.  I watched his face anxiously.  He went to the table, took a cigarette from the box and lighted it deliberately.  Then turning, faced me with a smile, and offered his hand.

“Yes,” he said.  “Old Dry-as-dust, I will.”

“A promise?  You’ve never broken one, Jerry.”

“A promise, Roger.  I—­I think I’m getting a little glimmering of sense.  A promise.  I’ll keep it.”

“Thank God, for that,” I said, in so fervent a tone that the boy smiled at me.

“Good old Roger!  You’re a brick,” he said.  “Friendship, after all, is the greatest thing in the world.”  He turned his head and walked to the window and looked out, assuming an air of unconcern which I knew hid some deep-seated emotion.  I, too, was silent.  It was a fine moment for us both.

He turned into the room after awhile with an air of gayety.

“We’re going to have a party, Roger.”

“Ah, when?”

“Marcia’s giving a dance tomorrow night, people from all over, and I’ll have a few of ’em here in the afternoon—­for tea out at the cabin.  Sort of a picnic.  Some of ’em are bringing rods to try the early fishing.  Rather jolly, eh?  I’ll tell Poole and Christopher—­”

I confessed myself much pleased with this arrangement and thanked my stars that Una had refused me.  It was the day I had wanted her.  Indeed, since Jerry’s promise, life at the Manor had suddenly taken a different complexion.  A new hope was born in me.  Jerry would keep that promise.  I was sure of it.