Megbie started from his reverie. He stared at the tall, swaying figure with fascinated eyes as he heard the bold and terrible words. Was it not thus that Lucifer himself had spoken in Milton's mighty poem? And how had the star of the morning fallen? Once more the thought flashed into his mind that there was something of madness in those blazing eyes. However great things this man had done, were not these words of tremendous arrogance the symptom of a brain destined to blaze up for a moment in mighty triumph and then to pass into the dark? Who could say? Who could tell? Suddenly Megbie realized that Sir William was speaking in an ordinary voice. "Forgive me," he was saying quietly, and with a half laugh. "I'm afraid I let myself go for a moment. It's not a thing I often do, you know; but you were so appreciative. Now you will please let me run away. I am afraid I have already been here too long. I have promised to take Miss Poole in to supper." He shook hands and walked hurriedly away. Megbie sat where he was for a few moments longer. He intended to leave the house quietly and go home to his chambers in the Temple, perhaps looking in at one of his clubs on the way. He did not want the innumerable questions, the pressure of the curious, which he knew would be his lot if he remained any longer in Portland Place. His mind was in a whirl, entire solitude would alone enable him to collect his thoughts. He rose to leave the conservatory, when he saw something bright upon the chair on which Sir William Gouldesbrough had been sitting. It was a cigarette-case. Megbie realized that Gouldesbrough had forgotten it. Being unwilling to seek out the scientist, Megbie put the case into his pocket, meaning to send it round to Sir William's house in the morning. Then he went swiftly into the hall, and managed to get away out of the house without being questioned or stopped. It was a clear, bright night. There was less smoke about in the sky than usual, and the swift motion of the hansom cab was exhilarating. How fortunate Sir William was! so the journalist thought, as he was driven through the lighted streets. He stood upon a supreme pinnacle of fame, and beautiful Marjorie Poole--a girl to make any man happy--was being kind to him again. The romantic and mysterious Rathbone incident was over and done with. Miss Poole's fancy for the young barrister must have only been a passing one. But what a dark and mysterious business it had all been! Megbie had known Guy Rathbone a little. He had often met him in the Temple, and he had liked the bright and capable young fellow. For a moment the writer contrasted the lot of two men--the one he had just left, great, brilliant, and happy; the other, whom he had known in the past, now faded utterly away into impenetrable dark.