It was house-dinner night at the club, and there was a larger gathering even than usual.  Douglas was there, light-hearted and in capital spirits, taking his first holiday for a week.  Things were going well enough with him now.  His novel was nearly finished, and the last few articles he had written for the Courier had brought a special visit from Rawlinson, who had patted him on the back and raised his salary.  He felt like a man who had buffeted his way through the rough waters into the smooth shelter of the harbour—­already he had almost forgotten how near they had come to closing over his head.  Spring was coming, and the love of life was once more hot in his veins.  Westwards, the chestnuts were budding and the lilac was in blossom.  London was beginning to raise herself with a great yawn, and to remember that at this season of the year, at least, she had a place amongst the beautiful cities of the world.  Douglas, good-natured always, to-night particularly happy, saw Drexley standing alone as usual by the terrace window, and crossed over to his side.

“Play me a game of billiards, Drexley,” he exclaimed.  “I’ve only half an hour to spare.”

Drexley turned his head only just sufficiently to see who it was that addressed him.

“Is that you, Jesson?” he said.  “No thanks.  I gave up billiards long ago.”

Douglas remained by his side.

“They tell me,” he remarked, “that two years ago you were the best player in the club.  Why don’t you keep it up?”

“Lost interest,” was the brief reply.  “You can’t do things well that you don’t care about, can you?”

Douglas forgot to answer.  He was aware that his companion was watching some one—­a shabby, wan figure leaning over the palisading which bordered the terrace below.  His own heart gave a throb.  He knew at once who it was.

“David!” he exclaimed.

Drexley turned upon him sharply.

“You know him?”

Douglas nodded.

“Yes,” he said.  “It is David Strong.  He is mad.”

“You know that it was he—­”

“Yes.”  Drexley drew a long breath.

“Look at him,” he said, softly.  “To-night he is safe—­quite harmless.  Some one has been giving him money.  He is quite drunk.  Thank God!”

Douglas stared at him—­surprised.

“Drunk,” Drexley explained, quietly, “he is safe.  He will curl down in some odd corner somewhere soon and sleep till morning.  There are other times when I have followed him about for hours, when I have seen the knife bulge in his pocket, and known that murder was in his heart.  I have dogged him about the streets then till daylight—­from her house to theatre steps, to concert rooms, restaurants, and private houses.  Anywhere, where he imagined that she might be.  I have seen him loiter about the pavements for hours, when the canvas archway and awning has been put out from one of the great West-end houses, just in the hope that she might be amongst