must lie some way. Then he laughed softly and bitterly to himself.
Yes, there was escape--escape through the small blue hole in the
forehead, which more than once he had pictured to himself lately with
horrid reality when fingering his revolver--escape in the arms of the
sea which he still loved, for in his day he had been a mighty swimmer.
There were no other means save such as these. Long ago he had wearied
of asking himself what manner of woman this was, whose lips he had never
touched, yet whose allurements seemed to have that touch of wonderful
magic which ever postpones, never forbids. He only knew 'that she was
to him as she was to those others--only with him the struggle was
fiercer. There were times as now, when his love seemed turned to fury.
She seemed to him then like some beautiful but unclean animal who fed
upon the souls of men. He burned to seize her in his arms, to cover her
face with hot kisses, and then to press his fingers around that delicate
white throat until the music of her death cry should set him free for
ever. But when his thoughts led him hitherwards a cold fear gave him
strength to break away--for with them came the singing in his ears, the
lights before his eyes, the airiness of heart and laughter which go
before madness. He sprang to his feet, steadied himself for a moment,
and walked rapidly onwards. The momentary exhilaration died slowly
away--the old depression settled down upon his spirits. Yet when he
reached the club he was breathless, and the hand which lighted a cigar
in the hall shook.

On the stairs he met an acquaintance.

"Going to dine, Drexley?"

"No, I don't think so," he answered blankly. "Do you know if Jesson is
in the club?"