The carriage swung again into the familiar parts of town. As he looked out of the windows at the lights and movement, Morton Sims forgot the purely scientific side of thought. The kindly human side of him reasserted itself. How infinitely sad it was! How deep the underlying horror of this sordid life-tragedy at the close of which he had been assisting! Who should say, who could define, the true responsibility of the man they were killing up there on the North London Hill? Predisposition to Alcohol, Reversion, Heredity!--was not the drunken old solicitor, long since dust, the true murderer of the gentle-mannered girl in Hackney? _Lothian_, the father of Gilbert Lothian the poet! the poet who certainly knew nothing of what was being done to the young man in the prison, who had probably never heard of his existence even. The "Fiend Alcohol" at work once more, planting ghastly growths behind the scutcheons of every family! A cunning murderer with a poisoned mind and body on one side, the brilliant young poet in the sunlight of success and high approbation upon the other! Mystery of mysteries that God should allow so foul a thing to dominate and tangle the fair threads and delicate tissues of life! "Well, that's that!" said the doctor, in a phrase he was fond of using when he dosed an episode in his mind. "I'll make my notes on Hancock's case and forget it until I find it necessary to use them in my work. And I'll lock up the poems Moultrie has sent me and I won't look at the book again for a month. Then I shall be able to read the verses for themselves and without any arrière-penseé. "But, I wonder . . . ?" The brougham stopped at the doctor's house in Russell Square. * * * * * BOOK ONE LOTHIAN IN LONDON "Myself, arch traitor to myself, My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go." THE DRUNKARD CHAPTER I UNDER THE WAGGON-ROOF. A DINNER IN BRYANSTONE SQUARE "Le véritable Amphitryon est l'Amphitryon où l'on dine." --_Molière._ It was a warm night in July when Mr. Amberley, the publisher, entertained a few friends at dinner to meet Gilbert Lothian, the poet. Although the evening was extremely sultry and the houses of the West End were radiating the heat which they had stored up from the sun-rays during the day, Mr. Amberley's dining room was deliciously cool. The house was one of those roomy old-fashioned places still to be found unspoiled in Bryanstone Square, and the dining room, especially, was notable. It was on the first floor, over-looking the square, a long and lofty room with a magnificent waggon-roof which was the envy of every one who saw it, and gave the place extraordinary distinction.