Again, half contemptuously, but with something almost vicious in his violence, Grandcourt slammed young Quest back into the chair from which he had attempted to hurl himself:  “Keep quiet,” he said; “you’re a particularly vile little wretch, particularly pitiable; but your sister is a girl of gentle breeding—­a sweet, charming, sincere young girl whom everybody admires and respects.  If you are anything but a gutter-mut, you’ll respect her, too, and the only way you can do it is by shutting that unsanitary whiskey-trap of yours—­and keeping it shut—­and by remaining as far away from her as you can, permanently.”

There were one or two more encounters, brief ones; then Quest collapsed and began to cry.  He was shaking, too, all over, apparently on the verge of some alcoholic crisis.

Grandcourt went over to Duane: 

“The man is sick, helplessly sick in mind and body.  If you’ll telephone Bailey at the Knickerbocker Hospital, he’ll send an ambulance and I’ll go up there with this fool boy.  He’s been like this before.  Bailey knows what to do.  Telephone from the station; I don’t want the club servants to gossip any more than is necessary.  Do you mind doing it?”

“Of course not,” said Duane.  He glanced at the miserable, snivelling, twitching creature by the fire:  “Do you think he’ll get over this, or will he buy another pistol the next time he gets the jumps?”

Grandcourt looked troubled: 

“I don’t know what this breed is likely to do.  He’s absolutely no good.  He’s the only person in the world that is left of the family—­except his sister.  He’s all she has had to look out for her—­a fine legacy, a fine prop for her to lean on.  That’s the sort of protection she has had all her life; that’s the example set her in her own home.  I don’t know what she’s done; it’s none of my business; but, Duane, I’m for her!”

“So am I.”

They stood together in silence for a moment; maudlin sniffles of self-pity arose from the corner by the fire, alternating with more hysterical and more ominous sounds presaging some spasmodic crisis.

Grandcourt said:  “Bunny Gray has helped me kennel this pup once or twice.  He’s in the club; I think I’ll send for him.”

“You’ll need help,” nodded Duane.  “I’ll call up the hospital on my way to the station.  Good-bye, Delancy.”

They shook hands and parted.

At the station Duane telephoned to the hospital, got Dr. Bailey, arranged for a room in a private ward, and had barely time to catch his train—­in fact, he was in such a hurry that he passed by without seeing the sister of the very man for whom he had been making such significant arrangements.

She wore, as usual, her pretty chinchilla furs, but was so closely veiled that he might not have recognised her under any circumstances.  She, however, forgetting that she was veiled, remained uncertain as to whether his failure to speak to her had been intentional or otherwise.  She had halted, expecting him to speak; now she passed on, cheeks burning, a faint sinking sensation in her heart.