and pillar of my own gate. I heard the crash. I was
conscious of flying through the air, and then--and then----!

* * * * *

When I became aware of my own existence once more I was among some
brushwood in the shadow of the oaks upon the lodge side of the drive. A
man was standing beside me. I imagined at first that it was Perkins, but
when I looked again I saw that it was Stanley, a man whom I had known at
college some years before, and for whom I had a really genuine
affection. There was always something peculiarly sympathetic to me in
Stanley's personality; and I was proud to think that I had some similar
influence upon him. At the present moment I was surprised to see him,
but I was like a man in a dream, giddy and shaken and quite prepared to
take things as I found them without questioning them.

"What a smash!" I said. "Good Lord, what an awful smash!"

He nodded his head, and even in the gloom I could see that he was
smiling the gentle, wistful smile which I connected with him.

I was quite unable to move. Indeed, I had not any desire to try to move.
But my senses were exceedingly alert. I saw the wreck of the motor lit
up by the moving lanterns. I saw the little group of people and heard
the hushed voices. There were the lodge-keeper and his wife, and one or
two more. They were taking no notice of me, but were very busy round the
car. Then suddenly I heard a cry of pain.

"The weight is on him. Lift it easy," cried a voice.

"It's only my leg!" said another one, which I recognised as Perkins's.
"Where's master?" he cried.

"Here I am," I answered, but they did not seem to hear me. They were all
bending over something which lay in front of the car.

Stanley laid his hand upon my shoulder, and his touch was inexpressibly
soothing. I felt light and happy, in spite of all.

"No pain, of course?" said he.

"None," said I.

"There never is," said he.

And then suddenly a wave of amazement passed over me. Stanley! Stanley!
Why, Stanley had surely died of enteric at Bloemfontein in the Boer War!

"Stanley!" I cried, and the words seemed to choke my throat--"Stanley,
you are dead."

He looked at me with the same old gentle, wistful smile.

"So are you," he answered.

X

LOT NO. 249

Of the dealings of Edward Bellingham with William Monkhouse Lee, and of
the cause of the great terror of Abercrombie Smith, it may be that no
absolute and final judgment will ever