the guests.  So far he has been unlucky, but some day I feel that for all my watching they will meet, and then may God help her!  You have influence over her, Jesson.  I wish you would persuade her to have him put under restraint.  She could identify him quite well as the man who shot at her on the terrace of her house, and so could you.  Or if she will not do this, she might keep away from England for a few more months.”

“Influence over her,” Douglas repeated, with a sudden bitterness in his tone.  “I have so much, that although I was with her on that terrible evening, and have written to her time after time, I have never had a line from her since she left England.”

Drexley laughed oddly.

“You, too,” he exclaimed.  “Your day is over then.  Well, it was a short and a merry one.  You bear it well, my young friend.”

Douglas shrugged his shoulders, but avoided Drexley’s earnest gaze.

“Emily de Reuss was very kind to me,” he said, “but she is not the only woman in the world.”  “For those who have known her,” Drexley said, “none can come after.”

“Then I must be one of those who have never known her,” Douglas answered, with a lightness which sounded natural enough, “for I am going to take the most charming little girl in London to the theatre to-night.”

Drexley pointed downwards.  The slouching figure which they had been watching had half collapsed against the railings.  He was obviously overpowered with drink.

“He was once like that,” Drexley said, “as young and eager and confident as you.  When she was first unkind, he laughed and tried a week in Paris.  But he came back.  Always there is the coming back.  It was the same with young Morrison—­with me—­it will be the same with you.  It creeps into the blood, and no man’s will, nor any other woman’s, can rid you of it.”

Douglas had already repented of that instinct of good nature which had led him to address Drexley.  A spectre which for months he had been doing his best to stifle was stalking once more by his side.

He turned away abruptly.

“Well,” he said, “I think you’re talking rot.  I shall go down and see whether anything can be done for that poor wretch there.”

Drexley turned and clutched him by the shoulder.

“Don’t,” he said.  “At least, listen to me for a moment.  Strong was in my office once.  I knew him at his best, I watched his decline, I have known him always.  He’s absolutely beyond help from you or me, or any living person.  Three times I have given him the money to emigrate, and he has pocketed it and laughed at me.  He has no conscience nor any sense of honour.  His life, or what is left of it, is a desire—­a desire to kill.  He would take your money and spend it in bribing servants or in procuring fresh weapons.  In any case it would go towards helping him in his horrible purpose.  Propose to kill him, if you like, and I am with you at all risks.  But don’t go near him, don’t give him money.”