others thought that
there was a ring of falsity about him, for all his frame was so
elegantly slender and supple, for all his mustache was so glossily dark,
and his eyes so richly lustrous. Dalrymple meanwhile hid his wound, met
the Count constantly at the Club, though no longer even exchanging bows
with him, and--worked at his revenge in secret as a beaver works at the
building of his winter ranch. He succeeded, too, in getting superb
materials for that revenge. They surprised even himself when a few
relatives and friends in Paris mailed him appalling documentary evidence
as to what sort of a character this Count really was. There is no doubt
that he now held in his hand a thunderbolt, and had only to hurl it when
he pleased.

He did not tell a single soul what he had learned. The thought of just
how he should act haunted him for several days. One evening he went home
from the club a little earlier than usual, and tossed restlessly for a
good while after going to bed. When sleep came it found him still
irresolute as to what course he should take.

It seemed to him that he had now a succession of dreams, but he could
recall none of them on awaking. And he awoke in a peculiar way. There
was yet no hint of dawn in the room, and only the light from his gas,
turned down to a very dim star. He was sitting bolt upright in bed, and
feverish, fatigued sensations oppressed him. "What have I been
dreaming?" he asked himself again and again. But as only a confused
jumble of memories answered him, he sank back upon the pillows, and was
soon buried in slumber.

It was past nine o'clock in the morning when he next awoke. He felt
decidedly better. Both the feverishness and the fatigue had left him. He
went to the club and breakfasted there. It was almost empty of members,
as small clubs are apt to be at that hour of the morning. But in the
hall he met his old friend Langworth and bowed to him. Langworth, who
was rather near-sighted, gave a sudden start and a stare. "How odd,"
thought Dalrymple, as he passed on into the reading-room, "I hope
there's nothing unexpected about my personal appearance." Just at the
doorway of the room he met another old friend, Summerson, a man
extremely strict about all matters of propriety. Summerson saw him and
then plainly made believe that he had not seen. As they moved by one
another Dalrymple said lightly, "Good-morning, old chap. How's your
gout?"

Summerson, who was very tall and excessively d