At five o’clock his housekeeper entered with the tea-things. He did not want tea. At seven she came again into the large dark room lit only by the red glow of the fire. “The gentlemen are here, sir.” It was a Tuesday evening. He had forgotten. He stumbled to his feet. “All right,” he said. Then he shivered, feeling a deadly sickness of soul. No, he could not meet his fellow creatures to-night. “Give them my compliments and apologies, and say I am unwell and unable to dine with them this evening. See that they have all they want, as usual.” “Very good, sir—but yourself? I’m sorry you are ill, sir. What can I bring you?” “Nothing,” said Quixtus harshly. “Nothing. And please don’t trouble me any more.” Mrs. Pennycook regarded him in some astonishment, not having heard him speak in such a tone before. Probably no one else had, since he had learned to speak. “If you’re not better in the morning, sir, I might fetch the doctor.” He turned in his chair. “Go. I tell you. Go. Leave me alone.” Later he rose and switched on the light and, mechanically descending to the hall, like a sleep-walker, deposited his usual largesse in the pockets of the three seedy, familiar overcoats. Then he went up to his museum again. The effort, however, had cleared his mind. He reflected. He had not been very well of late. There were such things as hallucinations, to which men broken down by mental strain were subject. Let him read the letter through once more. He took the crumpled paper from his pocket, smoothed it out and read. No. There was no delusion. The whole story was there—the treachery, the faithlessness, the guilty passion that gloried in its repeated consummation. His wife Angela, his friend Will Hammersley—the only woman and the only man he had ever loved. A sudden memory smote him. He had entrusted her to Hammersley’s keeping times out of number. “My God!” said he, beating his forehead with a clenched fist. “My God!” And so fell the second thunderbolt. Towards midnight there came a heavy knocking at his door. Startled by the unusual sound he cried: “What’s that? Who’s there?” The door opened and Eustace Huckaby lurched solemnly into the room. His ruffled hair stood up on end like a cockatoo’s crest, and his watery eyes glistened. He pulled his straggling beard. “Sorry ole’ man to hear you’re seedy. Came to know—how—getting on.” Quixtus rose, a new sternness on his face, and confronted the intruder. “Huckaby, you’re drunk.” Huckaby laughed and waved a protesting hand, thereby nearly losing his balance.