retch
to-night. Why, one might fancy anything." His own brain would not work.
He had just left a case that had needed all his sharpest attention, but
he had found that it was only with the utmost difficulty that he could
keep his mind alert, and now when he wanted to think about Breton he was
continually arrested by some sense of apprehension, so that he had to
stop himself from crying out to his driver, "Look out! Take care!
There's someone there."

When he got to his house he found that his forehead was covered with
perspiration and that he could scarcely breathe. Meanwhile he had
decided nothing as to the course he would pursue with Breton. When he
had dressed and come down he found that Breton was waiting for him.

"How ill he looks!" was Christopher's first thought. Perhaps Breton also
was oppressed by the weather and indeed in the house, although the
windows were open, it was stifling enough.

"No, the man's in pieces." Christopher's look was sharp. He had never
seen Breton, who was naturally neat and a little vain about his
appearance, so dishevelled. His beard was untrimmed, his eyes bloodshot,
his hair unbrushed, his face white and drawn and his mouth seemed, in
that light, to be trembling.

"Good heavens, man," said Christopher, "what _have_ you been doing to
yourself?"

Breton smiled feebly--"Oh, nothing. Don't badger me--I can't stand it."

"Badger you? Who's going to badger you? only----" Christopher broke off,
looked at him a moment, then put his hand on the other's shoulder.

"Look here, old man, why have you left me alone all these weeks?"

"Haven't felt like seeing anybody."

"Well, you might have felt like seeing me. I've missed you. I haven't
got so many friends that I can spare, so easily, my best one."

"Oh, rot, Chris," Breton said almost angrily. "You know it's only the
kind of interest you've got in all lame dogs that ties you to me at
all."

"You're an ungrateful sort of fellow, Frank. But no matter--I'm fond of
you in spite of your ingratitude. Come in to dinner and see whether you
can eat anything on this stifling night." It _was_ stifling, but
oppressive with something more than the mere physical discomfort of it.
It was a night that worked havoc with the nerves, so that Christopher,
who had naturally a vast deal of common sense, found himself glancing
round his shoulder, irritated at the least noise that his servant made,
expecting always to hear a knock on the door.

Breton c