“Razors—­what luck!  I say, I’ve gone and done it.  Chucked them—­hooked it.  Stood it eighteen months—­couldn’t stand it any longer.  On my soul I couldn’t.  But it’s all right—­I’ll explain.”

“Explain what?  To whom, you God-forsaken lunatic?”

“Sh—­sh—­sh!  To you.  For Heaven’s syke don’t talk so loud.  They’ll hear you.  You haven’t got a train you want to catch, or an appointment, have you?”

“I haven’t got a train, but I have got an appointment.”

“You might spare a fellow five minutes, ten minutes, can’t you?  I shan’t keep you more than ten at the outside.  There’s something I must tell you; but I can’t do it here.  And not there!” As Rickman opened the dining-room door Spinks drew back with a gesture of abhorrence.  He then made a dash for the adjoining room; but retired precipitately backwards.  “Oh damn!  That’s somebody’s bedroom, now.  How could I tell?”

“Look here, if you’re going to make an ass of yourself, you’d better come up to my room and do it quietly.”

“Thanks, I’ve got a room somewhere; but I don’t know which it is yet.”

Rickman could only think that the youth had broken his habit of sobriety.  He closed the study door discreetly, lit the lamp and took a good look at him.  He fancied he caught a suggestion of melancholy in the corners of his mouth and the lines of his high angular nose.  But there was no sign of intoxication in Sidney’s clear grey eye, nor trace of wasting emotion in his smooth shaven cheek.  Under the searching lamp-light he looked almost as fresh, as pink, as callow, as he had done four years ago.  He dropped helplessly into a low chair.  Rickman took a seat opposite him and waited.  While not under the direct stimulus of nervous excitement, young Spinks had some difficulty in finding utterance.  At last he spoke.

“I say, you must think I’ve acted in a very queer way.”

“Queer isn’t the word for it.  It’s astounding.”

“D’you really think so?  You mean I ’adn’t any rights—­it—­it wasn’t fair to you—­to come back as I’ve done?”

“Well, I don’t know about its being very fair; it certainly wasn’t very safe.”

“Safe?  Safe?  Ah—­I was afraid you’d think that.  Won’t you let me explain?”

“Certainly.  I should like to know your reasons for running into me like a giddy locomotive.”

“Well, but I can’t explain anything if you go on rotting like that.”

“All right.  Only look sharp.  I’ve got to meet a fellow in Baker Street at seven.  If you’ll get under weigh we might finish off the explanation outside, if you’re going back that way.”

“Going back.  Oh Lord—­don’t you know that I’ve come back here to stay.  I’ve got a room—­”

“Oh, that’s the explanation, is it?”

“No, that’s the thing I’ve got to explain.  I thought you’d think I’d acted dishonourably in—­in following her like this.  But I couldn’t stand it over there without her.  I tried, but on my soul I couldn’t.  I shall be all right if I can only see her sometimes, at meals and—­and so forth.  I shan’t say a word.  I haven’t said a word.  I don’t even think she knows; and if she did—­So it’s perfectly safe, you know, Rickman, it’s perfectly safe.”