What did he owe to Douglas Guest, the friend of Emily de Reuss, successful where he had failed? Had he not seen their hands joined? He drew a breath which sounded like a hiss.

"I thought," he muttered, "that it had been a woman, yet--who knows? It may have been Douglas Guest--and Joan, there was truth in your thought.

He lives. I cannot tell you where. I cannot help you find him, for I have another task. Yet he lives. I tell you that. Now let me go."

Her eyes flashed with something which was like joy. She had forgotten David's wandering words. All the time her instincts had been true.

"Let me go, Joan."

She laid her hands upon his shoulders.

"We are brother and sister," she said, "and what is mine is yours. Stay and share with me. Share the little we have, and let Cissy nurse you--ay, and share our vengeance."

She was flung on one side. Off her guard for a moment, he had pushed past her with unexpected strength.

"David!" she cried. "David!"

But she heard only his footsteps upon the stairs, swift and stealthy.

In the hall he turned and looked up at her. She was leaning over the banisters.

"Take some money, at least," she said. "See, I have dropped my purse."

He watched it where it lay within a few feet of him, burst open with the drop, and with the gleam of gold showing from one of the compartments.

He made no movement to pick it up. It seemed to her that as he pa.s.sed out he shrank from it. From the window she watched him turn the corner of the street and vanish in the shadows.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

DREXLEY FORESEES DANGER

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 G.o.d!"

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 the guests. So far he has been unlucky, but some day I feel that for all my watching they will meet, and then may G.o.d 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."

Douglas lit a cigarette and turned his back to the window.

"Very well," he said. "I will forget him. You had better do the same."

Drexley nodded slowly.