He had rooms in Clement’s Inn, retaining them even when his abode, strictly speaking, was at the little house by Clapham Common.  To that house no one was invited.  Old Mr. Quarrier knew not of its existence; neither did Mr. Sam Quarrier of Polterham, nor any other of Denzil’s kinsfolk.  The first person to whom Denzil revealed that feature of his life was Eustace Glazzard—­a discreet, upright friend, the very man to entrust with such a secret.

It was now early in the autumn of 1879.  Six months ago Denzil had lost his father, who died suddenly on a journey from Christiania up the country, leaving the barrister in London a substantial fortune

This change of circumstances had in no way outwardly affected Denzil’s life.  As before, he spent a good deal of his time in the rooms at Clement’s Inn, and cultivated domesticity at Clapham.  He was again working in earnest at his History of the Vikings.  Something would at last come of it; a heap of manuscript attested his solid progress.

To-day he had come to town only for an hour or two.  Glazzard was to call at half-past six, and they would go together to dine with Lilian.  In his report to her, Quarrier had spoken nothing less than truth.  “The lady with whom you chanced to see me the other day was my wife.  I have been married for a year and a half—­a strictly private matter.  Be so good as to respect my confidence.”  That was all Glazzard had learnt; sufficient to excite no little curiosity in the connoisseur.

Denzil’s chambers had a marked characteristic; they were full of objects and pictures which declared his love of Northern lands and seas.  At work he sat in the midst of a little museum.  To the bear, the elk, the seal, he was indebted for comforts and ornaments; on his shelves were quaint collections of crockery; coins of historical value displayed themselves in cases on the walls; shoes and garments of outlandish fashion lay here and there.  Probably few private libraries in England could boast such an array of Scandinavian literature as was here exhibited.  As a matter of course the rooms had accumulated even more dirt than one expects in a bachelor’s retreat; they were redolent of the fume of many pipes.

When Glazzard tapped at the inner door and entered, his friend, who sat at the writing-table in evening costume, threw up his arms, stretched himself, and yawned noisily.

“Working at your book?” asked the other.

“No; letters.  I don’t care for the Sea-Kings just now.  They’re rather remote old dogs, after all, you know.”

“Distinctly, I should say.”

“A queer thing, on the whole, that I can stick so to them.  But I like their spirit.  You’re not a pugnacious fellow, I think, Glazzard?”

“No, I think not.”

“But I am, you know.  I mean it literally.  Every now and then I feel I should like to thrash some one.  I read in the paper this morning of some son of a”——­(Denzil’s language occasionally reminded one that he had been a sailor) “who had cheated a lot of poor servant-girls out of their savings.  My fists itched to be at that lubber!  There’s a good deal to be said for the fighting instinct in man, you know.”