“What did you suppose I should do?” with a bitter sneer. “Go and drown myself, or cross to England with a pistol! No, thank you! I’m not that sort. I shall not oblige any _Police News_ with a paragraph.” “What are you going to do, Lawrie?” unheeding him. “Bob and I are going on to Dublin to-morrow—you come too—” He strode into the dining-room without answering—and she followed him. On the sideboard stood the spirit decanters as usual, and she saw his eye instantly turn to them, and a second later he had his hand upon the whisky. Quickly she was at his side: “Don’t have any more, Lawrie,” pleadingly. “You have had quite enough,” and she placed her hand over his. For one moment he glared at her again, then let go, and sinking into a chair by the table, buried his face in his hands. “Have you been playing billiards?” she asked, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Yes.” “For high sums, I suppose?” “Yes.” “I hope there isn’t misery in some other house in Newry to-night, through you.” “On the contrary, some of them must feel quite rich.” “Then you lost?” “Yes.” “I’m very glad.” “Thank you,” dryly. Gwen stood looking at him, noting vaguely the lines that had deepened in his face, and wondering what to do. “Lawrie.” “Yes.” “Your mother is ill. She fainted, and Bob carried her upstairs.” He winced, but his face did not soften. “You must have behaved like a blackguard to her,” and there was a tremor of intense feeling in Gwen’s voice. “It’s quite likely. But I warned her—why did she come in? I told her not to, and she has known me long enough.” “I wonder what Paddy would think of it?” He ground his teeth. “What does it matter?—what does anything matter? I used not to care, and I will be the same again. I have been a fool to let myself get set upon anything—” He got up, and pushed his chair aside roughly. “I am going away to-morrow! I don’t know where, except that I shall go to London first—afterward, to the devil, as I said before.” He turned to the door, and she could not but follow. “You needn’t worry any more to-night. I won’t touch the whisky again, and I won’t shoot myself,” and without waiting for her, he strode off up the stairs. CHAPTER XLIV “I Cannot Come.” For a whole week Lawrence knocked about London, and it was just as well for their peace of mind that none of those who cared for him saw him. One Sunday afternoon he suddenly called a taxi and drove off to Shepherd’s Bush. On asking for Miss Adair he was ushered in and led to the dingy, old-fashioned drawing-room. It was some time before a step approached, and then the doctor, with a keen look in his kindly eyes, entered alone. Lawrence was watching the door with a fixed intentness that scarcely gave when the unexpected comer entered. “My niece has a very bad headache,” the doctor said simply, as he shook hands. “She does not feel equal to seeing any one to-day. I am sorry you should have had this long drive for nothing.”