ore money than Francis, certainly: I ought to be able to control his
fate a little--and my own."

But Oliver, astute as he thought himself, was occasionally mistaken in
his conclusions. Francis Trent, as we have said, was not intoxicated;
and when he had dozed quietly for a few moments on the door-step, he
came somewhat to himself, as he usually did after these fits of frenzy.
He felt dazed and bewildered, but he was no longer furious. He could not
remember very well what he had said to Oliver, or what Oliver had said
to him. But he knew where he was, and that in this region--between
Russell Square and St. Pancras Church--he should find his truest friends
and perhaps also his bitterest foes.

He roused himself, stretched his cramped limbs, and turned back to
wander towards Upper Woburn Place, hardly knowing, however, why he bent
his steps in that direction. Instinct, not memory or reflection, guided
him, and when he halted, he leaned against the railings of the house
from which he had seen Oliver come forth, without realizing for one
moment that it was the house in which his faithful and half-forgotten
Mary was to be found.

The door opened, as he waited, and some of the guests came out. Two or
three carriages drove up: there was a call for a hansom, a whistle, and
an answering shout. Francis Trent watched the proceedings with a sort of
stupid attention. They reminded him of the previous night when he had
seen Ethel Kenyon coming out of the theatre after her farewell
performance. But on that occasion he had passed unnoticed and
unrecognized. This was not now to be the case.

Suddenly a woman on the threshold of Mr. Brooke's house caught sight of
the weary, shabby figure leaning against the railings. Francis heard a
little gasp, a little cry, and felt a hand upon his own. "Francis! is it
you? have you really come back?" It was Mary Kingston who looked him in
the face.

He returned the gaze with lack-lustre, unseeing eyes. When the fever-fit
of rage left him, he was still subject to odd lapses of memory. One of
these had assailed him now. He did not recognize his wife in the very
least.

"I--I don't know you," he said. "Go away, woman. I'm not doing any
harm."

There is nothing so piteous as the absence of recognition of the
patient's best friends in cases of brain-disease. Francis Trent's
condition sent a stab of pain to Mary's innermost heart. She forgot
where she was--she forgot her duties as doorkeeper; she r