pular enough amongst the jovial, lighthearted circle of his
fellow-workers and club companions, yet he himself was scarcely of their
disposition. His attitude towards life was still serious, he carried
always with him some suggestions of a past which must ever remain an
ugly and fearsome thing. His sense of humour was unlimited--in repartee
he easily held his own. He was agreeable to everybody, but he never
sought acquaintances, and avoided intimacies. More especially was he
averse to any mention of his earlier days.

Speedwell, sub-editor of the _Minute_, buttonholed him one day at the
club, and led him into a corner.

"You are the very man I wanted to see, Jesson," he exclaimed. "Have a
drink?"

"I've just dined, thanks," Douglas answered. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm giving some space in my rag," Speedwell explained, blandly, "to a
series of memoirs on prominent journalists of the day, and I want to
include you."

"I'm sure you're very kind," Douglas answered, "but you can't be in
earnest. To begin with, I'm not a prominent journalist, and I don't
suppose I ever shall be--"

"Well, you're a bit of a miracle, you know," Speedwell interrupted.
"You've come to the front so quickly, and you've a method of your
own--the staccato, nervous style, you know, with lots of colour and
dashes. I wish I'd a man on the staff who could do it. Still, that's
neither here nor there, and you needn't think I'm hinting, for I tell
you frankly the _Minute_ can't afford large-salaried men. What I want
from you is a photograph, and just a little sketch of your early
life--where you were born, and where you went to school, and that sort
of thing. It mayn't do you much good, but it can't do you any harm, and
I'll be awfully obliged."

Douglas was silent for a moment. The whole panorama of that joyless
youth of his seemed suddenly stretched out before him. He saw himself
as boy, and youth, and man; the village school changed into the
sectarian university, where the great highroad to knowledge was rank
with the weeds of prejudice. He saw himself back again at the
farmhouse, he felt again the vague throbbings of that discontent which
had culminated in a tragedy. He was suddenly white almost to the lips,
a mist seemed to hang about the room, and the cheerful voices of the men
playing pool came to him like a dirge from the far distance. Speedwell,
waiting in vain for his answer, looked at him in surprise.

"Aren't you well, old chap?" h