present. He was not a man of strong imagination, and the stimulus of
her waned when she was not with him. Long before the cab reached the
Albany the frown was back on his face.


4.

Arriving at the Albany, he found Freddie Rooke lying on his spine in
a deep arm-chair. His slippered feet were on the mantelpiece, and he
was restoring his wasted tissues with a strong whisky-and-soda. One
of the cigars which Parker, the valet, had stamped with the seal of
his approval was in the corner of his mouth. _The Sporting Times_,
with a perusal of which he had been soothing his fluttered nerves,
had fallen on the floor beside the chair. He had finished reading,
and was now gazing peacefully at the ceiling, his mind a perfect
blank. There was nothing the matter with Freddie.

"Hullo, old thing," he observed as Derek entered. "So you buzzed out
of the fiery furnace all right? I was wondering how you had got
along. How are you feeling? I'm not the man I was! These things get
the old system all stirred up! I'll do anything in reason to oblige
and help things along and all that, but to be called on at a moment's
notice to play Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego rolled into one,
without rehearsal or make-up, is a bit too thick! No, young
feller-me-lad! If theatre-fires are going to be the fashion this
season, the Last of the Rookes will sit quietly at home and play
solitaire. Mix yourself a drink of something, old man, or something
of that kind. By the way, your jolly old mater. All right? Not even
singed? Fine! Make a long arm and gather in a cigar."