Drexley looked up. There was the dull hopelessness of despair in his
bloodshot eyes. Douglas, who had never seen anything like it before,
felt an unaccountable sense of depression sweep in upon him.

"I am her bondman," he said, "body and soul. I could not tell you at
this moment whether I hate her or love her the more; but I could not
live without seeing her."

Douglas passed upstairs to his billiards with a grim vision before his
eyes. Drexley was a broken man--of that there was no doubt. He knew
that his warning was kindly meant, but many times, both during that
evening and afterwards, he regretted that he had ever heard it. He had
come into the club almost lighthearted, thinking only of Cicely and of
the pleasant days of companionship which might still be theirs. He left
it at midnight vaguely restless and disturbed, with the work of weeks
destroyed. Emily de Reuss had regained her old place without the
slightest effort. Surely it was a hopeless struggle.



CHAPTER XXIII

CICELY'S SECRET

A hard week's work left Douglas little time for outside thoughts.
Besides his daily articles for the Courier, which in themselves were no
inconsiderable task, he had begun at last the novel, the plot of which
had for long been simmering in his brain. He had certainly received
every encouragement. Rawlinson, who had insisted upon seeing the