the game," replied the other.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it was understood that he should win her on the understanding
that he was an atheist and a drunkard."

"But surely you don't object to his reforming?"

"No, of course I should be only too glad if he did, only in that case
all the point of our discussion would be gone."

They were, during this conversation, sitting in the club where we first
met them, and just as Purvis was about to reply to the other Leicester
entered the room. He looked even paler than usual, and the dark rings
around his eyes suggested pain either physical or mental. No sooner did
he see them than he walked towards them, as if glad of an opportunity of
companionship.

"How are you, Leicester?"

"I have a beastly headache," he replied.

Sprague and Purvis looked at each other significantly, a look which
Leicester noticed.

"No," he said, "don't draw your conclusions. I have not been drinking.
It's that confounded constituency."

"Why, anything happened there?"

"No--nothing of importance. It's only the old game. This man has to be
written to, and the other man has to have a certain statement explained.
I'd give up the whole thing for twopence."

"Where would your career be then, Leicester?"

"Hang the career," he said moodily.

"It's all very well to say that, old man, but a great deal depends on
it."

"What?"

"Well, your future--your future in Parliament, and your future
matrimonial arrangements."

He gave the two men an angry look.

"Surely that's my affair," he said.

"Sorry to contradict you, old man; but it is our affair too. That
hundred pounds, you know."

Leicester gave expression to a sentiment which was more forcible than
elegant.

Sprague looked at him eagerly. Ever since the night when we first met
these men, he had cherished anger in his heart towards Leicester. He
felt that this man despised him, and he was glad of the opportunity of
giving him one, as he termed it, "on his own account."

"Our gallant warrior is afraid to fight," he said with a sneer.

Leicester started as though he were stung. The look on Sprague's face
maddened him. For Leicester was in a nervous condition that night. His
abstention from spirits was telling on him terribly. Every fibre of his
being was crying out for whisky, and every nerve seemed on edge.

"What do you mean, Sprague?" he demanded.

"I mean that our gallant warrior is pulling down his flag," said
Sprague.