just to drink a glass
of whisky at the club price. In the reading-room were a few men
occupied with newspapers or in chat. In a corner, reading his favourite
organ of 'free thought,' sat Luke Ackroyd.

Bower got his glass of spirits, brought it into the reading-room, and
sat down by Ackroyd.

'So our friend Egremont's begun to get his books together,' he began.

'Has he?'

Luke was indifferent. Of late he had entered upon a new phase of his
mental trouble. He was averse from conversation, shrank from his old
companions, seemed to have resumed studious habits. It had got about
that he was going to marry Totty Nancarrow, but he refused to answer
questions on the subject. Banter he met with so grim a countenance that
the facetious soon left him to himself. He no longer drank, that was
evident. But his face was pale, thin, and unwholesome. One would have
said that just now he was more seriously unhappy than he had been
throughout his boisterous period.

Bower, after one or two glances at him, lowered his voice to say:

'I can't think it's altogether the right thing for Thyrza Trent to be
there every morning helping him. Of course you and me know as it's all
square, but other people might--eh? Grail ought to think of that--eh?'

Now it had seemed to Mr. Bower, in his native wisdom, that any scandal
about Thyrza would tickle Ackroyd immensely. He imagined Luke bearing a
deep grudge against the girl and against Grail--for he knew that the
friendship between Luke and the latter had plainly come to an end. In
his love of gossip, he could not keep the story to himself, and he
thought that Ackroyd would be the safest of confidants. In fact, though
he spoke to Mrs. Butterfield as if he had conceived some deep plan of
rascality, the man was not capable of anything above petty mischief. He
liked to pose in secret as a sort of transpontine schemer; that
flattered his self-importance; but his ambition did not seriously go
beyond making trouble in a legitimate way. He did indeed believe that
something scandalous was going on, and it would be all the better fun
to have Ackroyd join him with malicious pleasure in a campaign against
reputations. Luke was a radical of the reddest; surely it would delight
him to have a new cry against the patronising capitalist.

Ackroyd, having heard that whisper, looked up from his paper slowly.
And at once Bower knew that he had made a great miscalculation.

'Other people might think _what_?' Lu