come to an end. Directly after his dismissal by Olive
Castlemaine he had cast all good resolutions to the winds, and as a
consequence he was at that moment a laughing-stock to the town,
to-morrow he would be an object of ridicule for the whole country. And
Olive Castlemaine would know of it. Bridget Osborne would send the local
newspaper to her, and she would read that----

What a thin veneer his so-called reformation was, and what a broken reed
he was, in spite of all his boasted strength! He had been a poor thing
whose moral elevation had depended on the smile of a woman, and when
that smile was withdrawn, he had returned like a swine to its wallow!

But worse than all, there was the disgrace of it! Never before had he
sacrificed his pride, never before had he given any one the opportunity
of saying that he did not retain a full possession of his faculties. He
who had boasted that he had nerves of steel, and that no whisky ever
distilled could make him drunk!

He leaped out of bed, and with trembling hands opened his portmanteau.
Ah! there it was--a bottle of whisky. He pulled out the cork, and then
hesitated. Was he so weak, then, as to return to the poison that had
made him the byword of clodhoppers? The thought staggered him, and
possibly he might have put it from him, had not the smell of the whisky
reached him. This was like a match to a powder magazine. He took a deep
drink, and he felt better.

"If I had only been careful it would never have happened," he reflected.
"I wonder now if----"

He heard a knock at the door.

"Yes."

"A gentleman to see you, sir."

"His name?"

"Mr. Grayburn, sir."

"Very well, tell him I'll be with him in a few minutes. Ask him to take
a seat, will you, James?"

He spoke in his old voice. After all, the event of the previous evening
was only an episode. He was not really altered; perhaps he would be able
to put all things right even yet.

He determined that nothing should be left undone, on his part, to atone
for the miserable past. He went to the bathroom, which adjoined his
room, and plunged into cold water; after this he shaved himself, and
then dressed with great care. When he appeared before Mr. Grayburn there
were no traces of the events of the previous night. His nerves stood him
in good stead again. He was never more quiet and composed in his life.
Yet he felt like a man who had signed his own death warrant.

"Ah! good-morning, Mr. Grayburn."

"Good-morning