ike a boy rummaging a jam closet, he rifled the shelves
and pulled down a black derby of an unknown vintage. Large; but a runner
of folded paper reduced the size. As he pressed the relic firmly down
on his head he winced. A stab over his eyes. He waited doubtfully; but
there was no recurrence. Fit as a fiddle. Of course he could not stoop
without a flash of vertigo; but on his feet he was top-hole. He was
gaining every day.

Luck. He might have come out of it with the blank mind of a newborn
babe; and here he was, keen to resume his adventures. Luck. They had not
stopped to see if he was actually dead. Some passer-by in the hall
had probably alarmed them. That handkerchief had carried him round the
brink. Perhaps Fate intended letting him get through--written on his
pass an extension of his leave of absence. Or she had some new torture
in reserve.

Now for a stout walking stick. He selected a blackthorn, twirled it,
saluted, and posed before the mirror. Not so bally rotten. He would
pass. Next, he remembered that there were some flowers in the dining
room--window boxes with scarlet geraniums. He broke off a sprig and drew
it through his buttonhole.

Outside there was a cold, pale April sky, presaging wind and rain.
Unimportant. He was going down into the streets for an hour or so. The
colour and action of a crowded street; the lure was irresistible. Who
would dare touch him in the crowd? These rooms had suddenly become
intolerable.

He leaned against the side of the window. Roofs, thousands of them,
flat, domed, pinnacled; and somewhere under one of these roofs Stefani
Gregor was eating his heart out. It did not matter that this queer old
eagle whom everybody called Cutty had promised to bring Stefani home.
It might be too late. Stefani was old, highly strung. Who knew what
infernal lies Karlov had told him? Stefani could stand up under physical
torture; but to tear at his soul, to twist and rend his spirit!

The bubble in the champagne died down--as it always will if one permits
it to stand. He felt the old mood seep through the dikes of his gayety.
Alone. A familiar face--he would have dropped on his knees and thanked
God for the sight of a familiar face. These people, kindly as they
were--what were they but strangers? Yesterday he had not known them;
to-morrow he would leave them behind forever. All at once the mystery
of this bubbling idea was bared: he was going to risk his life in the
streets in the vague ho