chance, perhaps, or a mood, which made him look out upon a scene,
ordinary enough and inoffensive, through dun-coloured spectacles. He
paid his bill and walked thoughtfully homeward, thankful for the cool
night air which fanned his forehead. He even entered his bare
sitting-room and threw up the window with a positive feeling of relief.

He brought out his work, lighted a cigarette and sat there smoking
thoughtfully. The match which kindled his lamp showed him a large
square envelope on his mantelpiece. He tore it open and drew out a
letter. It was from Emily.

He read it eagerly. Whatever its message, it seemed a relief to him
just then to know that his suspense was to be ended.

"My FRIEND,--I am suffering from a slight accident--you alone know the
nature of it--and from a shock, the nature of which you cannot
understand. I am better, but my doctor is an old woman. He insists
upon sending me away. I am going--never mind where. It may be that we
shall not meet again for some time. I want you to think of me, my dear
Douglas, as kindly as you can. It seems to me that I am a very
unfortunate woman. Those whom I would befriend usually end by regarding
me as their worst enemy. Do not you also lose faith in me. Some day I
shall return, and I hope to find you famous. Work at your novel,
dedicate it, if no one who has more right to such an honour has come
into your life, to me, and, whatever you do, remember that I am always
your friend and that your success will be as dear to me as to yourself.

"EMILY DE REUSS."

Precisely the moment when such a thought came to him, he could not say,
but before he had finished reading his attention was partially
distracted by a curious and instinctive conviction. He felt that he was
not alone--that the solitude of his chamber, high up in the building and
cut off, as it were, from the world, had been broken. He ceased
reading, and although he was no coward he could feel his heart beating.
He felt a strange reluctance to turn round. Then the silence was
broken. Close to his left ear sounded the click of a revolver, and a
man's voice came to him from out of the shadows.

CHAPTER XXVII

FELLOW-CRIMINALS

"Stand precisely as you are, Douglas Guest. If you turn your head, or
take a single step towards me, you are a dead man."

Douglas was not a coward, and the sound of a human voice dispelled in a
moment the vague fears which had caused his heart to leap. He remained
immovable.