“Waiter,” he said, “bring more wine.  My friend, Douglas Jesson, we must drink together.  I remember your story, for I put the blue chalk on it myself and took it up to Drexley.  It is a meeting this, and we must celebrate.  Your story will probably be used next week.”

Douglas’s eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed.  The flavour of living was sweet upon his palate.  Here he was, who, only twelve hours ago, had gone skulking in the shadows looking out upon life with terrified eyes, tempted even to self-destruction, suddenly in touch once more with the things that were dear to him, realising for the first time some of the dreams which had filled his brain in those long, sleepless nights upon the hill-top.  He was a wanderer in Bohemia, welcomed by an older spirit.  Surely fortune had commenced at last to smile upon him.

“You are on a visit here?” his new friend asked, “or have you come to London for good?”

“For good, I trust,” Douglas answered, smiling, “for I have burned my boats behind me.”

“My name is Rice, yours I know already,” the other said.  “By-the-bye, I noticed that the postmark of your parcel was Feldwick in the Hills, somewhere in Cumberland, I think.  Have you seen the papers during the last few days?”

Douglas’s left hand gripped the table, and the flush of colour, which the wine and excitement had brought into his cheeks, faded slowly away.  The pleasant hum of voices, the keen joy of living, which, a moment before, had sent his blood flowing to a new music, left him.  Nevertheless he controlled himself and answered steadily.

“I have had nothing else to do during the last few days but read the papers.”

“You know about the murder, then?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Rice was interested.  He passed his cigarette case across the table and called for Kummel.

“I wonder,” he said, “did you know the man Guest—­Douglas Guest?”

Douglas shook his head.

“Very slightly,” he said.  “I lived some distance away, and they were not sociable people.”

“Murders as a rule,” Rice continued, leaning back in his chair, “do not interest me.  This one did.  Why?  I don’t know.  I hate to have reasons for everything.  But to me there were many interesting points about this one.  First, now—­”

He rattled on until his voice seemed like a far distant echo to Douglas, who sat with white face and averted eyes, struggling hard for composure.  From the murder he passed on to the tragedy on the railway train.

“You know,” he said, “I cannot help thinking that the police were a little hasty in assuming that the man was Douglas Guest.”

“An envelope was found upon him and a handkerchief with his initials,” Douglas said, looking up, “besides the card.  He was known too to have taken that train.  Surely that was evidence enough?”

“It seems so,” Rice answered, “and yet—­But never mind.  I see that I am boring you.  We will talk of something else, or rather I must talk of nothing else, for my time is up,” he added, glancing at the clock.  “When are you going to look up Drexley?”