So advantage was taken of the Australian’s ignorance of the names of liqueurs.  Perhaps the wine in the soup had already caused some excitement in the head—­unaccustomed to any stimulant ever since the accident and illness which had rendered it inflammable to a degree no one suspected.  When once the first glass was swallowed, the dreadful work was easy, resolution and judgment were obscured, and the old habits and cravings of the days when poor Harold had been a hard drinker had been revived in full force.  Uproarious mirth and wild feats of strength seemed to have been the consequence, ending by provoking the interference of the police, who had locked up till the morning such of the party as could not escape.  Happily, the stupefied stage had so far set in that Harold had made it no worse by offering resistance, and Dermot had managed to get the matter hushed up by the authorities at Foling.  This was what he had come to say, but Harold had been very brief and harsh with him; though he was thoroughly angered and disgusted at the conduct of his friends, and repeated, hotly, that he had been treated with treachery such as he could never forgive.

So we came to the former “Dragon’s Head,” where Harold had fitted up a sort of office for himself.  Mr. Yolland bade me go up alone, and persuade him to come home with me.  I was in the greater fright, because of the selfishness which had mingled with the morning’s indignation, but I had just presence of mind enough for an inarticulate prayer through the throbbings of my heart ere knocking, and at once entering the room where, under a jet of gas, Harold sat at a desk, loaded with papers and ledgers, on which he had laid down his head.  I went up to him, and laid my hand as near his brow as his position would let me.  Oh, how it burnt!

He looked up with a face half haggard, half sullen with misery, and hoarsely said, “Lucy, how came you here?”

“I came in to get you to walk home with me.”

“I’ll get a fly for you.”

(This would be going to the “Boar,” the very place to meet these men.)

“Oh no! please don’t.  I should like the walk with you.”

“I can’t go home yet.  I have something to do.  I must make up these books.”

“But why?  There can’t be any haste.”

“Yes.  I shall put them into Yolland’s hands and go by the next mail.”

“Harold!  You promised to stay till Eustace was in good hands.”

He laughed harshly.  “You have learnt what my promise is worth!”

“Oh Harold! don’t.  You were cheated and betrayed.  They took a wicked advantage of you.”

“I knew what I was about,” he said, with the same grim laugh at my folly.  “What is a man worth who has lost his self-command?”

“He may regain it,” I gasped out, for his look and manner frightened me dreadfully.

He made an inarticulate sound of scorn, but, seeing perhaps the distress in my face, he added more gently, “No, Lucy, this is really best; I am not fit to be with you.  I have broken my word of honour, and lost all that these months had gained.  I should only drag Eustace down if I stayed.”