“Write and tell him to come and see you then,” Drexley said, gruffly.  “He can’t refuse—­poor devil.”

The beautifully-shaped eyebrows of the Countess de Reuss were a trifle uplifted.  Yet she smiled faintly.

“No,” she said, “he could not refuse.  But it is not quite what I want.  If I write to him he will imagine many things.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked brusquely.

“You see him often at the club?”

“Yes.”

“Go there to-night.  Say that we have spoken of him; hint that this absolute withdrawal from my house must appear ungrateful—­has seemed so to me.  I shall be at home alone a week to-night.  Do you understand?”

“I understand, at least, that I am not to come and see you a week to-night,” he answered with a harsh laugh.

“That is quite true, my friend,” she said, “but what of it?  You have no special claim, have you, to monopolise my society?—­you nor any man.  You are all my friends.”

There was a knock at the door—­a maid entered.

“Her ladyship will excuse me,” she said, “but she is dining at Dowchester House to-night at eight o’clock.”

Emily rose and held out her hand to Drexley.

“Quite right, Marie,” she said.  “I see that I must hurry.  You will remember, my friend.”

“I will remember,” he answered quietly.

He walked eastwards across the park, not briskly as a strong man with the joy of living in his veins, but with slow, dejected footsteps, his great shoulders bent, his heart heavy.  Physically he was sound enough, yet the springs of life seemed slack, and a curious lassitude, a weariness of heart and limbs came over him as he passed through the crowds of well-dressed men, his fellows, yet, to his mind, creatures of some other world.  He sank into an empty seat, and watched them with lack-lustre eyes.  Why had this thing come to him, he wondered, of all men?  He was middle-aged, unimaginative, shrewd and well balanced in his whole outlook upon life.  Three years ago no man in the world would have appeared less likely to become the wreck he now felt himself—­three years ago he had met Emily de Reuss.  With a certain fierce eagerness he set himself to face his position.  Surely he was still a man?  Escape must lie some way.  Then he laughed softly and bitterly to himself.  Yes, there was escape—­escape through the small blue hole in the forehead, which more than once he had pictured to himself lately with horrid reality when fingering his revolver—­escape in the arms of the sea which he still loved, for in his day he had been a mighty swimmer.  There were no other means save such as these.  Long ago he had wearied of asking himself what manner of woman this was, whose lips he had never touched, yet whose allurements seemed to have that touch of wonderful magic which ever postpones, never forbids.  He only knew ’that she was to him as she was to those others—­only with him the struggle was fiercer.  There were times