ged themselves to
produce it within a month, and Douglas was everywhere pursued with
little bundles of proofs requiring immediate attention. These and his
work at the _Courier_ kept him fairly occupied during the day, but the
night time was fast becoming a season of terror. He tried theatres,
music halls, the club--all vainly. For there were always the silent
hours before the dawn, when distraction was impossible--hours when he
lay with hot, wide-open eyes and looked back upon that little scene--saw
Emily with her hands outstretched towards him, and that new light upon
her face, heard her changed tone, saw the wonderful light in her eyes,
felt the thrilling touch of her lips. After all, was he not a fool--a
quixote--he, to dare to make terms with her who offered him her
love--he, unknown, poor, of humble birth--she an aristocrat to the
finger-tips, rich, beautiful, famous. What a gulf between them. She
had stretched out her hands to help him across, and he had lingered
bargaining. He leaped from his couch and stood before his window. He
would go to her at once--her love he would have on any terms until she
was weary of him, and the measure of his life should be the measure of
those days. He would have his day and die. Then the empty streets, the
curling white mists, the chill vaporous breeze, and the far-off sickly
lights gleaming down the riverside reminded him that many hours must
come before he could see her. And with the later morning came fresh
resolutions--the moment of weakness was gone.

One night he did an act of charity. He brought home to his rooms a
homeless wanderer whom he had found discharged from a night in the
cells, gave him his own bedroom and sent for a doctor and nurse. From
them he learnt that so far as Emily de Reuss was concerned, there was
nothing more to be feared from David Strong. His days were numbered at
last, and the end was very near. So Douglas would hear nothing of a
hospital, and spent weary nights at the dying man's side. For which,
and his act of charity, he had soon an ample reward.

One morning a grinning youth invaded his sanctum at the Courier with the
information that a lady wished to see him. The walls spun round and his
heart leaped with delirious hope. But when he reached the waiting-room
it was Cicely who rose smiling to greet him, Cicely in the smartest
clothes she had ever worn, and a new hat, looking as dainty and pretty
as a picture. But it was Cicely--not the woman for