ght; but I expect that it will take _me_ all I know to
get clear of her. However, there are some occasions in life when one is
bound to sacrifice one's own convenience, and this is one of them. After
all, she is really very pretty in the evening, so it might have been
worse."

Bottles winced, and Sir Eustace took a cigarette.

"By the way, old fellow," he said, as he settled himself in his chair
again, "I hope you are not put out with me over this. Believe me, you
have no cause to be jealous; she does not care a hang about me, it
is only the title and the money. If a fellow who was a lord and had a
thousand a year more proposed to her to-morrow she would chuck me up and
take him."

"No; I am not angry with you," said Bottles; "you meant kindly, but I am
angry with myself. It was not honourable to--in short, play the spy upon
a woman's weakness."

"You are very scrupulous," yawned Sir Eustace; "all means are fair to
catch a snake. Dear me, I nearly exploded once or twice; it was better
than [yawn] any [yawn] play," and Sir Eustace went to sleep.

Bottles sat still and stared at the fire.

Presently his brother woke up with a start. "Oh, you are there, are you,
Bottles?" (it was the first time he had called him by that name since
his return.) "Odd thing; but do you know that I was dreaming that we
were boys again, and trout-fishing in the old Cantlebrook stream. I
dreamt that I hooked a big fish, and you were so excited that you jumped
right into the river after it--you did once, you remember--and the river
swept you away and left me on the bank; most unpleasant dream. Well,
good night, old boy. I vote we go down and have some trout-fishing
together in the spring. God bless you!"

"Good night," said Bottles, gazing affectionately after his brother's
departing form.

Then he too rose and went to his bedroom. On a table stood a battered
old tin despatch-box--the companion of all his wanderings. He opened it
and took from it first a little bottle of chloral.

"Ah," he said, "I shall want you if I am to sleep again." Setting the
bottle down, he extracted from a dirty envelope one or two letters and a
faded photograph. It was the same that used to hang over his bed in his
quarters at Maritzburg. These he destroyed, tearing them into small bits
with his strong brown fingers.

Then he shut the box and sat down at the table to think, opening the
sluice-gates of his mind and letting the sea of misery flow in, as it
we