Jim had a smoking-carriage all to himself on his return journey. He was glad of that, for he wanted to think of Dora, and solitude suited his mood. After this night he would have to put her out of his thoughts altogether, but to-night she was still Dora Maybury--still the queen of his heart. To-morrow Jim must in honour cease to be her subject; but to-morrow had not come yet. Soon enough the new day, dawning, would bring desolation to his love. Strange that the turning-point in Jim’s career should have come on Dora’s wedding eve! Seemingly it was one of those compensatory acts wherewith Dame Fortune makes amends for the hard blows she deals. Jim knew that this day’s success was good enough to make a specialist of him right away. And what joy would have filled his heart, this journey, had he been speeding back to Dora’s side--he could imagine, had she been his, the pride that would have lit up her face when she heard of his achievement! As the train cleft the darkness, eating up a mile of iron road with each minute that passed, Jim, just for the sake of the melancholy pleasure he extracted from it, let his fancy wander in the world of make-believe. Dora was _his_, and was awaiting him. He had only dreamed that she was another’s. London to him now was no grimy, smoke-begirt city, but a palace of delight set in a garden fragrant with "the blended odours of a thousand flowers." But, alas for such vain imaginings! A rough voice roused Jim from his half-dose, and a rain-spotted hand awaited his ticket.... It was London, and London in its dampest and most dismal garb. Jim had wired from Threeways asking Koko to meet him at his surgery at eight. He thought they might spend the evening together amid cheery surroundings. Koko had not arrived at the surgery when he got there. The fire was out--Mrs Brown, taking advantage of her master’s absence, was probably carousing with other ladies of her own station. Mount Street appeared exceptionally sordid and forlorn. Everything seemed to have conspired to add to Jim’s weight of sadness. He lit the gas, and as it flared up he was slightly startled to observe the figure of a man huddled up on the sofa. On the floor, by the head of the sofa, stood an empty glass jar. Jim walked across the room and inspected the sleeper. It was the old provision dealer. "Wake up, Mr Harris!" he cried; "wake up! What are you doing here?" The provision dealer slowly opened his eyes. "Ain’t I--ain’t I dead, then?" he demanded. "_Dead_? No! You’re as alive as I am!" "I thought I’d svallowed enough of the stuff to do the job." "What stuff?" "Vy, the prussic acid. That’s deadly p’ison, ain’t it?" "Rather!" "Well, I svallowed all there vos in the bottle ... and I ain’t dead, it seems." Jim surveyed the empty jar, and found it to be the mislabelled vessel in which he kept his whisky safe from Mrs Brown’s thirsty raids.