Sangster found Jimmy Challoner huddled up in an arm-chair by a roasting fire. His face looked red and feverish, his eyes had a sort of unnatural glazed look, but he was sufficiently well to be able to swear when he saw his friend.

"Costin fetched you, of course. Interfering old idiot! He thinks I'm ill, but it's all bally rot! I've got a chill, that's all. What the deuce do you want?"

Sangster answered good-temperedly that he didn't want anything in particular; privately he agreed with Costin that it was more than an ordinary chill that had drawn Jimmy's face and made such hollows beneath his eyes. He stood with his back to the fire looking down at him dubiously.

"What have you been up to?" he asked.

"Up to!" Jimmy echoed the phrase pettishly. "I haven't been up to anything. You talk as if I were a blessed brat. One must do something to amuse oneself. I'm fed-up--sick to death of this infernal life.

It's just a question of killing time from hour to hour. I loathe getting up in the morning, I hate going to bed at night, I'm sick to death of the club and the fools you meet there. I wish to G.o.d I could end it once and for all."

"Humph! Sounds as if you want a tonic," said Sangster in his most matter-of-fact way. He recognised a touch of hysteria in Jimmy's voice, and in spite of everything he felt sorry for him.

"Give me a drink," said Jimmy presently. "That idiot, Costin, has kept everything locked up all day. I'm as dry as blazes. Give me a drink, there's a good chap."

Sangster filled a gla.s.s with soda water and brought it over to where Jimmy sat huddled up in the big chair. He looked a pitiable enough object--he wanted shaving, and he had not troubled to put on his collar; his feet were thrust into an old pair of bedroom slippers. He sipped the soda and pushed it away angrily.

"I don't want that d.a.m.ned muck," he said savagely.

"I know you don't, but it's all you're going to have. Look here, Jimmy, don't be an a.s.s! You're ill, old chap, or you will be if you go on like this. Take my advice and hop off to bed, you'll feel a heap better between the sheets. Can I do anything for you--anything----"

"Yes," said Jimmy sullenly. "You can--leave me to myself."

He held his hands to the fire and shivered; Sangster looked at him silently for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders and turned towards the door. He was out on the landing when Jimmy called his name.

"Well?"

"Where the deuce are you going?" Jimmy demanded irritably. "Nice sort of pal, you are, to go off and leave a chap when he's sick."

Sangster did not make the obvious reply; he came back, shutting the door behind him. Jimmy was leaning back in his chair now; his face was nearly as red as the dressing-gown he wore, but he shivered violently from time to time. There was a little silence, then he opened his eyes and smiled rather apologetically.

"Sorry to be so dull. I haven't slept for a week."

It would have been nearer the truth to say that he had hardly closed his eyes since the night of Cynthia Farrow's death, but he knew that if he said that Sangster would at once bark up the wrong tree, and conclude that he was fretting for her--breaking his heart for her, whereas he was doing nothing of the kind.

It was Christine, and not Cynthia, who was on his mind day and night, night and day; Christine for whose sake he reproached himself so bitterly and could get no rest. She was so young--such a child.

Every day he found himself remembering some new little incident about her; every day some little jewel from the past slipped out of the mists of forgetfulness and looked at him with sad eyes as if to ask:

"Have you forgotten me? Don't you remember----"

He could not help thinking of Christine's mother too; he had been fond of her--she had mothered him so much in the old days; he wondered if she knew how he had repaid all her kindness; what sort of a hash he had made of life for poor little Christine.

"You'd better cut off to bed," Sangster said again bluntly.

He lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air; he was really disturbed about Jimmy. The repeated advice seemed to annoy Jimmy; he frowned and rose to his feet; he caught his breath with a sort of gasp of pain. Sangster turned quickly.

"What's up, old chap?"

"Only my rotten head---it aches like the very devil."

Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed hard over his eyes, then he took a step forward, and stopped again.

"I can't--I--confound it all----"

Sangster caught his arm.

"Don't be an a.s.s; go to bed." He raised his voice; he called to Costin; between them they put Jimmy to bed and tucked him up. He kept protesting that there was nothing the matter with him, but he seemed grateful for the darkness of the room, and the big pillows beneath his aching head.

Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin.

"I don't think we need send for a doctor," he said. "It's only a chill, I think. See how he is in the morning. What's he been up to, Costin?"

Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows.

"He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like----" He looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait.

Sangster shook his head.

"You mean----" he asked reluctantly.

"Yes, sir." Costin tiptoed across the room and closed the door which led to Jimmy's bedroom. "He's never been the same, sir, since Miss Farrow died--asking your pardon," he added hurriedly.

Sangster threw his cigarette end firewards.

"It's a rotten business," he said heavily. In his own heart he agreed with Costin; he believed that it was Cynthia's death that was breaking Jimmy's heart. He would have given ten years of his life to have been able to believe that it was something else quite different.

"Well, I'll look in again in the morning," he said. "And if you want me, send round, of course."

"Yes, sir."

Costin helped Sangster on with his coat and saw him to the door; he was dying to ask what had become of Mrs. Jimmy, but he did not like to. He was sure that Jimmy had merely got married out of pique, and that he had repented as quickly as one generally does repent in such cases.

Sangster walked back to his rooms; he felt very depressed. He was fond of Jimmy though he did not approve of him; he racked his brains to know what to do for the best.

When he got home he sat down at his desk and stared at the pen and ink for some moments undecidedly; then he began to write.

He addressed an envelope to Christine down at Upton House, and stared at it till it was dry. After all, she might resent his interference, and yet, on the other hand, if Jimmy were going to be seriously ill, she would blame him for not having told her.

Finally he took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and tossed up for it.

"Heads I write, tails I leave it alone."

He tossed badly and the penny came down in the waste-paper basket, but it came down heads, and with a little lugubrious grimace, Sangster dipped the pen in the ink again and squared his elbows.

He wrote the letter four times before it suited him, and even then it seemed a pretty poor epistle to his critical eye as he read it through--