k him by the arm; but he would not move. To my
astonishment he faced me and said:

"And my sureties?"

"We'll pay 'em," I replied, "both of 'em, if you break your bail.
Come," but he would not.

"Frank, if I were not in Oakley Street to-night Willie would tell the
police."

"Your brother?" I cried.

"Yes," he said, "Willie."

"Good God!" I exclaimed; "but let him tell. I have not mentioned Erith
or the steam yacht to a soul. It's the last place in the world the
police would suspect and before he talks we shall be out of reach.
Besides they cannot do anything; you are doing nothing wrong. Please
trust me, you do nothing questionable even till you omit to enter the
Old Bailey on the 20th of May."

"You don't know Willie," he continued, "he has made my solicitors buy
letters of mine; he has blackmailed me."

"Whew!" I whistled. "But in that case you'll have no compunction in
leaving him without saying 'goodbye.' Let's go and get into the
brougham."

"No, no," he repeated, "you don't understand; I can't go, I cannot
go."

"Do you mean it really?" I asked. "Do you mean you will not come and
spend a week yachting with me?"

"I cannot."

I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage: something of desolation
and despair in his voice touched me: I looked at him. Tears were
pouring down his face; he was the picture of misery, yet I could not
move him.

"Come into the carriage," I said, hoping that the swift wind in his
face would freshen him up, give him a moment's taste of the joy of
living and sharpen the desire of freedom.

"Yes, Frank," he said, "if you will take me to Oakley Street."

"I would as soon take you to prison," I replied; "but as you wish."

The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen's Gate. The
mist seemed to lend keenness to the air. At the bottom of Queen's Gate
the coachman swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road;
Oscar seemed to wake out of his stupor.

"No, Frank," he cried, "no, no," and he fumbled at the handle of the
door, "I must get out; I will not go. I will not go."

"Sit still," I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman," and I put my
head out of the window and cried:

"Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert."

I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street. I was
consumed with rage and contemptuous impatience. I had done the best I
knew and had failed. Why? I had no idea. I have never known why he
refused to come. I don't think