ick man's room and talking. And it may have been that the lonely man
felt cheered by the companionship and the friendliness that proffered
it, what time all others held aloof; or that the two were akin in ideas,
or both; but henceforward a sort of intimacy struck up between them,
and it was noticed that Hazon no longer went about invariably alone.
Then people began to look somewhat queerly at Laurence.

"You and 'the Pirate' have become quite thick together, Stanninghame,"
said Rainsford one day, meeting him alone.

"Well, why not?" answered Laurence, rather shortly, resenting the
inquisitional nature of the question. Then point blank, "See here,
Rainsford. Why are you all so down on the man? What has he done,
anyway?"

"You needn't get your shirt out, old chap," was the answer, quite
good-humouredly. "Look here, now--we are alone together--so just between
ourselves. Do you notice how all of these up-country going fellows shunt
him--Wheeler, for instance? and Garway, who is at your hotel, never
speaks to him. And Garway, you'll admit, is as good a fellow as ever
lived."

"Yes, I'll own up to that. What then?"

"Only this, that they know a good deal that we don't."

"Well, what do they know--or say they know?"

"Look here, Stanninghame," said Rainsford, rather mysteriously, "has
Hazon ever told you any of his up-country experiences?"

"A few--yes."

"Did he ever suggest you should take a trip with him?"

"We have even discussed that possibility."

"Ah----!" Then Rainsford gave a long whistle, and his voice became
impressive as he resumed: "Watch it, Stanninghame. From time to time
other men have gone up country with Hazon, but--_not one of them has
ever returned_."

"Oh, that's what you're all down on him about, is it?"

The other nodded; then, with a "so-long," he cut across the street and
disappeared into an office where he had business.

CHAPTER VII.

"THE WHOLE SOUL PRISONER ..."

No more foolish passion was ever implanted in the human breast than that
of jealousy--unless it were that of which it is the direct outcome--nor
is there any which the average human is less potent to resist. The
victim of either, or both, is for the time being outside reason.

Now the first-mentioned form of disease is, to the philosophical mind,
of all others the most essentially foolish--indeed, we can hardly call
to mind any other so thoroughly calculated to turn the average
well-constructed man or woman int