It was from the girl at my side that recognition first came. “It’s he!” she cried. “It’s he!” It was he--the wretch who had set us all by the ears; who had fooled and duped us; who had played upon us, as a last stroke, a trick whose nature, even yet, I did not understand. I strode into the crowd. “Let me pass! Make way for me!” They made way. It was well for them they did; the strength of a dozen Samsons was that moment in my arms. I planted myself in front of him. “How is it that you’ve come back--from the gates of hell?” “Ferguson! It’s you!” He broke into a peal of laughter, which spoke of pain, not pleasure. “But I’ve not come back! They’re still stoking the fires!” He threw out his arms as if referring to the jeering mob, which pressed upon us. “Here are the attendant demons--can’t you see them?” I continued standing still, regarding him. “It is Edwin Lawrence, as I live. Edwin--not Philip.” “Yes; not Philip--Edwin!” He laughed again. “Would you like to see the strawberry mark? It’s there.” “What is this game in which you have been taking a hand?” “It’s a game of my own invention--and hers!” He made an upward movement with his hand. “It was from her the inspiration came. She named the stakes, framed the rules, started the game, watched the play--and with both eyes she’s watched it ever since. Those eyes of hers! They never sleep, and never blink or wink, but watch, watch, watch all the time. They’ve watched me ever since the game began. They’re watching now! She haunts and hounds me--into the train and out of it. She’s here now--enjoying the joke. Hark! Can’t you hear her?” He stopped to listen. I heard nothing out of the common, though it seemed he did. “That’s her laughter!” He broke into discordant merriment. “I play the part of Echo. She has me, body, soul, and spirit; and she thinks it such a jest!” He spoke as men do in fevers. I could see that there were some about us who set him down as mad. There were those who jeered, as fools will at the sight of a man’s anguish, when, in the abandonment of his shame, he trails his soul in the dust. I had seen persons in his case before. He was not mad, as yet, but on the border line, where men fight with demons. He had been drinking, to drive them back; but they had come the more, threatening, on every hand, to shut him in for ever. He knew what it was they threatened. It was the anguish of the knowledge which caused the sweat to stand in beads upon his brow. The railway officials, I fancy, took it to be a case of incipient delirium tremens. A person in authority addressed himself to me. “Are you a friend of this gentleman’s, sir?” “I know him well.” “Are you willing to undertake the charge of him? You see he’s not in a fit state to go about alone.” “I’ll take charge of him.” “Then you’ll be so good as to remove him from the station at once. He’s already given us more than sufficient trouble.”