swift as a lightning-flash, a quiver of rage so rabid that he looked
scarcely human, but like some Greek presentment of the Furies or Revenge.
Never, so thought his old friend, had he seen such glorious youthful
beauty so instinct and inspired with hate. It was the demoniacal force of
that which lent such splendour to it. But it passed in a second, and
Morris still very pale, very quiet spoke to him.

"Where is he?" he asked. "I must see him at once. It won't keep."

Then he sprang up, his rage again mastering him.

"What shall I do it with?" he said. "What shall I do it with?"

For the moment Mr. Taynton forgot himself and his anxieties.

"Morris, you don't know what you are saying," he cried. "Thank God nobody
but me heard you say that!"

Morris seemed not to be attending.

"Where is he?" he said again, "are you concealing him here? I have
already been to your office, and he wasn't there, and to his flat, and he
wasn't there."

"Thank God," ejaculated the lawyer.

"By all means if you like. But I've got to see him, you know.
Where is he?"

"He is away in town," said Mr. Taynton, "but he will be back to-night.