Rees meanwhile was spending his Christmas at his lodgings in St. Martin’s-lane, with the faithful Sep Jocelyn for company. Sep was still as much outwardly devoted as ever to his more brilliant friend; but the fast life they were leading, acting upon a constitution already weakened by former excesses, was telling upon him even more plainly than upon the younger man. Sep was losing his nerve. As he sat with Rees by the fire on the evening of Christmas Day, heavy with late sleep and with a drinking bout of the previous night, every slight noise made by a movement of his companion, or by the traffic in the street outside, caused him to start, and sometimes to shiver. He had grown much older looking during the past year; his face was swollen and puckered about the eyes, while the threads of grey in his fair hair had multiplied into wide white streaks. His starts and tremors began to irritate Rees, who put out his hand to stop Sep as the latter was about to help himself from a decanter which stood on the table. “That will do, Sep. Goodhare will be here in a minute to settle our next plans, and you’ll want all your wits about you.” “But I’m so cold,” pleaded the other, in a husky voice. “Well, brandy won’t warm you. Sit nearer to the fire.” “I can’t get any nearer, unless I sit in the fender,” complained Sep, rather sullenly. For Rees had used rather a bullying tone. “I’m going into a decline, I think,” Sep began again. “This life’s too much for me, what with the danger, and the work, and the risks, and then the pace we go when we’re in funds.” “Do you want to go back to Carstow and your old auntie, then?” asked Rees, with what was meant for a sneer, but which proved to be a rather feeble one. “No-o; at least if I did, I suppose you wouldn’t let me go; and if you would, Goodhare wouldn’t,” said Sep, hopelessly. The idea of starting an independent course of action was now further than ever beyond his capacity. “I shouldn’t prevent you,” said Rees, gloomily. “This occupation of gentlemanly footpad is not more to my taste than to yours. I believe Goodhare likes violence; it’s one vent to the savagery he has been saving up all these years. But, for my part, if I had my chances over again, I should choose life in the country with----” He stopped. “With Deborah Audaer?” suggested Sep. Rees got up and stretched himself. “What’s the use of talking, when there’s one of Marion’s ecstatic effusions to be answered, and Goodhare may be in any minute.” “I’m sick of Goodhare, Rees; aren’t you? He’s a selfish, greedy old rascal, and he always contrives to get the lion’s share of the plunder and the fox’s share of the risk. He hardly lets one call one’s soul one’s own.”