His enemies, as sometimes but not often happens, spoke from imperfect knowledge. Every man has his weak points, and should be careful to keep them to himself--friends may become enemies--and to let no one know them or suspect them. As for the weak points of Alec Feilding--had his enemies known them---- But you shall see. He sat down at his library-table and began to copy the manuscript that he had been reading. It was a laborious task, first because copying work is always tedious, and next because he was making alterations--changing names and places--and leaving out bits. He worked on steadily for about half an hour. Then there was a gentle tap at the door, and his servant--who looked as solemn and discreet as if he had been Charles the Second's confidential clerk of the Back-stairs--came in noiselessly on tiptoe and whispered a name. Alec placed the manuscript and his copy carefully in a drawer, and nodded his head. You have already seen the man who came in. Five years older, and a good deal altered--changed, perhaps, for the worse--but then the freshness of twenty-one cannot be expected to last. The man who stayed three weeks in Samson, and promised a girl that he would return. The man who broke that promise, and forgot the girl. He never went back to Scilly. Perhaps he had grown handsomer: his Vandyke beard and moustache were by this time thicker and longer: he was more picturesque in appearance than of old: he still wore a brown velvet coat: he looked still more what he was--an artist. But his cheek was thin and pale, dark rings were round his eyes, his face was gloomy: he wore the look of waste--the waste of energy and of purpose. It is not good to see this look in the eyes of a young man. 'You sent for me,' he said, with no other greeting. 'I did. Come in. Is the door shut? I've got some good news for you. Heavens! you look as if you wanted good news badly! What's the matter, man? More debts and duns? And I want to consult you a little about this picture of yours'--he pointed to the easel. [Illustration: _'I want to consult you a little about this picture of yours.'_] 'Mine? No: yours. You have bought me--pictures and all.' 'Just as you like. What does it matter--here--within these walls?' 'Hush! Even here you should not whisper it. The birds of the air, you know---- Take great care'---- Roland laughed, but not mirthfully. 'Mine?' he repeated; 'mine? Suppose I were to call together the fellows at the club, and suppose I were to tell the story of the last three years?--eh? eh? How a man was fooled on until he sold himself and became a slave--eh?' 'You can't tell that story, Roland, you know.' 'Some day I will--I must.' Alec Feilding threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs, and joined his fingers. It is an attitude of judicial remonstrance.