could come down. Had an idea I should make him lose his train, I
suppose. Well, never mind him. Come along."

Max went with him in silence. Dudley had not only got back his usual
spirits, but seemed to be in a mood of loquacity and liveliness unusual
with him. When they got to the club, he ordered oysters and a bottle of
champagne, and drank much more freely than was his custom.

It was Max, the ne'er-do-weel, the extravagant one, who drank little and
did the listening. Dudley had cast off altogether the gravity and
taciturnity which sometimes got him looked upon as a bit of a prig, and
chatted and told his friend stories, with a tone and manner of
irresponsible gayety which became him ill.

And Max, who was usually the talker, listened as badly as the other told
his stories. For all the time he was weighed down with the fear, so
strong that it seemed to amount to absolute knowledge, of some horrible
danger hanging over his friend.

Abruptly, before he made the expected comment on the last of Dudley's
stories, Max rose from his chair and said he must go home.

"I'll see you as far as your diggings first," said he. "It's not much
out of way, you know."

At these words Dudley's high spirits suddenly left him, and the furtive
look came again into his face.

"Oh," said he, "oh, very well. And on the way I can tell you the whole
story of the accident that I saw at Charing Cross, this evening, just