through him such a shock of amazement as nearly deprived him of the
power to think. Perhaps for the first time in his life he was utterly
and completely at a loss. Only as he gazed at the man before him, there
came upon him, sudden as a blow, the memory of a certain hot day more
than a year before when he and Everard Monck had wrestled together in
the Club gymnasium for the benefit of a little crowd of subalterns who
had eagerly betted upon the result. It had been sinew _versus_ weight,
and after a tough struggle sinew had prevailed. He remembered the
unpleasant sensation of defeat even now though he had had the grit to
take it like a man and get up laughing. It was one of the very few
occasions he could remember upon which he had been worsted.

But now--to-night--he was face to face with something of an infinitely
more serious nature. This man with the stern, accusing eyes and wholly
merciless attitude--what had he come to say? An odd sensation stirred at
Dacre's heart like an unsteady hand knocking for admittance. There was
something wrong here--- something wrong.

"You--madman!" he said at length, and with the words pulled himself
together with a giant effort. "What in the name of wonder are you doing
here?" He had bitten his cigar through in his astonishment, and he
tossed it away as he spoke with a gesture of returning confidence. He
silenced the uneasy foreboding within and met the hard eyes that
confronted him without discomfiture. "What's your game?" he said. "You
have come to tell me something, I suppose. But why on earth couldn't you
write it?"

"The written word is not always effectual," the other man said.

He put up a hand abruptly and stripped the ragged hair from his face,