He went home in the early grey of the May morning; but not to sleep. He lay tossing from side to side, tormented by that preternatural wakefulness which is apt to succeed a long period of riot and excitement. The course at Epsom, the gipsy fortune-tellers, the betting-men in white hats and green veils, the Dutch dolls and pink calico pincushions, the dust and clamour of the homeward drive, the jingling of broken glass, the popping of corks, the revolutionary crowd in the drama, the tartan trousers and broken bandboxes in the farce,--all mixed themselves in his brain, falling to pieces, and putting themselves together again like the images in a kaleidoscope. Mr. Lowther, coming to see his friend at the correct visiting hour, found Francis still in bed, in a little room behind the library, which he had fitted up for himself at Harcourt’s instigation, as a bedroom and dressing-room, a kind of refuge to which he might betake himself when he was unfit to encounter the calm gaze of Maude’s clear blue eyes fixed upon him in sorrowful wonder. Her manner to him had never quite recovered its old kindness since that unlucky encounter on the stairs. She was still kind to him; but he could see that it was by an effort only that she retained anything of her old friendliness. He could see this, and the knowledge of it galled him to the quick. Harcourt Lowther’s work was more than half done by this time. He had no longer any difficulty in beguiling Francis abroad, for the Cornishman no longer cared to remain at home. Mr. Tredethlyn had not very long fallen into a feverish slumber after long hours of wakeful weariness, when his friend called upon him. Harcourt seated himself by the side of the narrow brass bedstead, and stared contemplatively at the sleeper, while he spoke to the valet who had admitted him to the darkened chamber. “You can let your master sleep till four o’clock, Jervois,” he said. “At four give him some soda and brandy. He has an appointment with me at half-past five. Take care that he doesn’t oversleep himself. I’ll write him a line by way of reminder.” He drew a little writing-table towards him, and wrote a few lines on a sheet of note-paper: “DEAR TREDETHLYN,--Remember your engagement at my quarters; 5.30 sharp. You had better bring the mail phaeton, and can give me a lift to the S. and G. “Yours faithfully, “H. L.” He slipped his note into an envelope, and dipped his pen into the ink; but before writing the address, he stopped suddenly, and tore the note into fragments. “_She_ might see it!” he muttered, thoughtfully, “and that might show her the nature of my cards. The only wise man is the one who can do his work without that most dangerous of all machinery--pen and paper. Poor Francis! he looks a little worn.”