"Did any one else see it?" "Not unless Drexley did. He has never spoken to me about it." Douglas drank more wine. He was unused to it, and the colour mounted to his pale cheeks. "You have asked me a question," he said, "and it is answered. What else?" "Nothing," Rice said slowly. "It is no concern of mine. "You are not anxious, then," Douglas said, "to earn a hundred pounds reward?" "I think if I were you," Rice said, "I would get the Courier to send you abroad. They would do it in a minute." "Abroad?" Douglas looked across the table questioningly. It was a new idea to him. "Yes. You could visit odd places and write impressions of them. Yours is just the style for that sort of thing--quick and nervous, you know, and lots of colour. People are rabid for anything of that sort just now. Take my tip. Suggest it to Rawlinson." "I think I will," Douglas said. "Yes, it is a good idea. I wonder--" Rice leaned once more across the table. "You wonder what the Countess de Reuss will say. Is that it?" Douglas nodded. "I should consult her, of course." A rare seriousness fell upon Rice. The nonchalance, which was the most pronounced of his mannerisms, had fallen away. It was a new man speaking. One saw, as it were for the first time, that his hair was grey, and that the lines on his face were deeply engraven. "My young friend," he said, "I want you to listen to me. I am twice your age. I have seen very much more of the world than you. Years ago I had a friend--Silverton. He was about your age--clever, ambitious, good-looking. He scored a small success--a poem, I think it was--and some one took him one day to call on Emily de Reuss. I do not know where he is now, but two months ago I met him in rags, far advanced in consumption, an utter wreck bodily and mentally. Yet when I spoke one word of her he struck me across the lips. To-day I suppose he is dead--pauper's funeral and all that sort of thing, without a doubt. I have taken his case first because he reminded me of you. He had come from the north somewhere, and he was about your age. But he is only one of a score. There is Drexley, a broken man. Once he wrote prose, which of its sort was the best thing going. To-day he is absolutely nerveless. He cannot write a line, and he is drinking heavily. That he has not gone under altogether is simply because as yet he has not received his final dismissal. He still has his uses, so he is allowed to hang on a little longer. Now, Douglas Jesson, listen to one who knows. What you are and who you are--well, no matter. I liked you when we met here, and you have a splendid opportunity before you. Listen. Emily de Reuss will care nothing for your safety. She will oppose your going abroad. You are her latest plaything. She is not weary of you yet, so she will not let you go. Be a man, and do the sensible thing. Too many have been her victims. It may make your heart ache a little; you may fancy yourself a little ungracious. Never mind. You will save