He finished his novel, doggedly and conscientiously.  The great publishing house who had been waiting for it had pledged themselves to produce it within a month, and Douglas was everywhere pursued with little bundles of proofs requiring immediate attention.  These and his work at the Courier kept him fairly occupied during the day, but the night time was fast becoming a season of terror.  He tried theatres, music halls, the club—­all vainly.  For there were always the silent hours before the dawn, when distraction was impossible—­hours when he lay with hot, wide-open eyes and looked back upon that little scene—­saw Emily with her hands outstretched towards him, and that new light upon her face, heard her changed tone, saw the wonderful light in her eyes, felt the thrilling touch of her lips.  After all, was he not a fool—­a quixote—­he, to dare to make terms with her who offered him her love—­he, unknown, poor, of humble birth—­she an aristocrat to the finger-tips, rich, beautiful, famous.  What a gulf between them.  She had stretched out her hands to help him across, and he had lingered bargaining.  He leaped from his couch and stood before his window.  He would go to her at once—­her love he would have on any terms until she was weary of him, and the measure of his life should be the measure of those days.  He would have his day and die.  Then the empty streets, the curling white mists, the chill vaporous breeze, and the far-off sickly lights gleaming down the riverside reminded him that many hours must come before he could see her.  And with the later morning came fresh resolutions—­the moment of weakness was gone.

One night he did an act of charity.  He brought home to his rooms a homeless wanderer whom he had found discharged from a night in the cells, gave him his own bedroom and sent for a doctor and nurse.  From them he learnt that so far as Emily de Reuss was concerned, there was nothing more to be feared from David Strong.  His days were numbered at last, and the end was very near.  So Douglas would hear nothing of a hospital, and spent weary nights at the dying man’s side.  For which, and his act of charity, he had soon an ample reward.

One morning a grinning youth invaded his sanctum at the Courier with the information that a lady wished to see him.  The walls spun round and his heart leaped with delirious hope.  But when he reached the waiting-room it was Cicely who rose smiling to greet him, Cicely in the smartest clothes she had ever worn, and a new hat, looking as dainty and pretty as a picture.  But it was Cicely—­not the woman for whose coming he would have given years of his life.

She herself was too happy to notice the sudden fall in his countenance.  Her piquant little face was beaming.  She held out a pearl-gloved hand to him.

“Douglas,” she exclaimed.  “I have come to take you out to lunch.  It was a bargain, remember.  I have just drawn a cheque from the Ibex for twenty pounds.”