fingers, and hastily completed his toilet. Once more, with a great
effort, and an almost reckless resort to his host's champagne, he
triumphed over the demons of memory which racked his brain. At dinner his
gayety was almost feverish. Edith Fitzmaurice, who was his neighbour,
found him a delightful companion. Only the Colonel glanced towards him
now and then anxiously. He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the
light in Wrayson's eyes puzzled him.

There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left
alone. The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter,
which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way.

"If you don't care about any more wine," he said, "we might have a smoke
in the garden."

Wrayson rose at once.

"I should like it," he said abruptly. "I don't know how it is, but I seem
half-stifled to-day."

They passed out into the soft, cool night. A nightingale was singing
somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden. The air was sweet
with the perfume of early summer flowers. Wrayson drew a long, deep
breath of content.

"Let us sit down, Colonel," he said; "I have something to tell you."

The Colonel led the way to a rustic seat. A few stars were out, but no
moon. In the dusky twilight, the shrubs and trees beyond stood out with
black and almost startling distinctness against the clear sky.