the face of my country's laws, and, taking my reputation
in my hand, penetrated into that grim supper-house. And Collette's
frequenters, thrillingly conscious of wrong-doing and "that two-handed
engine (the policeman) at the door," were perhaps inclined to somewhat
feverish excess. But the place was in no sense a very bad one; and it is
somewhat strange to me, at this distance of time, how it had acquired
its dangerous repute.

In precisely the same spirit as a man may debate a project to ascend the
Matterhorn or to cross Africa, John considered Alan's proposal, and,
greatly daring, accepted it. As he walked home, the thoughts of this
excursion out of the safe places of life into the wild and arduous,
stirred and struggled in his imagination with the image of Flora
Mackenzie--incongruous and yet kindred thoughts, for did not each imply
unusual tightening of the pegs of resolution? did not each woo him forth
and warn him back again into himself?

Between these two considerations, at least, he was more than usually
moved; and when he got to Randolph Crescent, he quite forgot the four
hundred pounds in the inner pocket of his greatcoat, hung up the coat,
with its rich freight, upon his particular pin of the hat-stand; and in
the very action sealed his doom.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH JOHN REAPS THE WHIRLWIND

About half-past ten it was John's brave good fortune to offer his arm to
Miss Mackenzie, and escort her home. The night was chill and starry; all
the way eastward the trees of the different gardens rustled and looked
black. Up the stone gully of Leith Walk, when they came to cross it, the
breeze made a rush and set the flames of the street-lamps quavering; and
when at last they mounted to the Royal Terrace, where Captain Mackenzie
lived, a great salt freshness came in their faces from the sea. These
phases of the walk remained written on John's memory, each emphasised by
the touch of that light hand on his arm; and behind all these aspects of
the nocturnal city he saw, in his mind's eye, a picture of the lighted
drawing-room at home where he had sat talking with Flora; and his
father, from the other end, had looked on with a kind and ironical
smile. John had read the significance of that smile, which might have
escaped a stranger. Mr. Nicholson had remarked his son's entanglement
with satisfaction, tinged by humour; and his smile, if it still was a
thought contemptuous, had implied consent.

At the captain's