At the appointed hour he arrived in St. James’s Street, and a moment later Philip came up to him. “Now, Teddie,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking, I know I’ve been a fool and the rottenest sort of type to have acted as I have, but there is a kind of explanation.” Bellamy surrendered at once to that absurd sense of delight at being in Philip’s company, and his small resentment was rent and scattered. None the less he regarded him with a veiled intentness. He was looking tired and old--forcing himself--there was something seriously the matter. “My very dear Philip,” he said, “you don’t need to explain things to me. To think it is eight years since we met!” “First of all let’s order something,” said Philip. “You have what you like, I don’t want much, except a drink.” Whereupon he selected a reasonable collation for Bellamy and a dressed crab and asparagus for himself. But he drank two Martinis in ten seconds, and these were not the first--Bellamy knew--that he had ordered since 5.30 (there _was_ something wrong). For a little while the conversation was uneasily, stalely reminiscent. Suddenly Philip blurted out, “I can’t keep it in any longer. You’re the only really reliable, unswerving friend I’ve ever had. You will help me, won’t you?” “My dear Philip,” said Bellamy, touched, “I always have and always will be ready to do anything you want me to do and at any time--you know that.” “Well, then, I’ll tell you my story. First of all, have you ever heard of a man called Oscar Clinton?” “I seem to remember the name. It is somehow connected in my mind with the nineties, raptures and roses, absinthe and poses; and the _other_ Oscar. I believe his name cropped up in a case I was in. I have an impression he’s a wrong ’un.” “That’s the man,” said Philip. “He stayed with me for three months at Franton.” “Oh,” said Bellamy sharply, “how was that?” “Well, Teddie, anything the matter with one’s lungs affects one’s mind--not always for the worse, however. I know that’s true, and it affected mine. Arizona is a moon-dim region, very lovely in its way and stark and old, but I had to leave it. You know I was always a sceptic, rather a wooden one, as I remember; well, that ancient, lonely land set my lung-polluted mind working. I used to stare and stare into the sky. One is brought right up against the vast enigmas of time and space and eternity when one lung is doing the work of two, and none too well at that.” Edward realised under what extreme tension Philip had been living, but felt that he could establish a certain control over him. He felt more in command of the situation and resolved to keep that command.