"He was once like that," Drexley said, "as young and eager and confident
as you. When she was first unkind, he laughed and tried a week in
Paris. But he came back. Always there is the coming back. It was the
same with young Morrison--with me--it will be the same with you. It
creeps into the blood, and no man's will, nor any other woman's, can rid
you of it."

Douglas had already repented of that instinct of good nature which had
led him to address Drexley. A spectre which for months he had been
doing his best to stifle was stalking once more by his side.

He turned away abruptly.

"Well," he said, "I think you're talking rot. I shall go down and see
whether anything can be done for that poor wretch there."

Drexley turned and clutched him by the shoulder.

"Don't," he said. "At least, listen to me for a moment. Strong was in
my office once. I knew him at his best, I watched his decline, I have
known him always. He's absolutely beyond help from you or me, or any
living person. Three times I have given him the money to emigrate, and
he has pocketed it and laughed at me. He has no conscience nor any
sense of honour. His life, or what is left of it, is a desire--a desire
to kill. He would take your money and spend it in bribing servants or
in procuring fresh weapons. In any case it would go towards helping him
in his horrible purpose. Propose to kill him, if you like, and I am
with you at all risks. But don't go near him, don't give him money."