on--or is it Douglas Guest?"

Douglas gasped and clutched for a moment at the tablecloth. The room
was suddenly spinning round and round, the faces of the people were
shrouded in mist, his newly-acquired strength was all engrossed in a
desperate struggle against that sickening sensation of fainting. Rice's
voice seemed to come to him from a long way off.

"Drink your wine, man--quick."

Mechanically he obeyed. He set the glass down empty. Once more the
faces in the restaurant were clear, the mists had passed away. But the
keen joy of living no longer throbbed in his pulses.

"How did you know?" he asked, hoarsely.

"From the story you sent us," Rice answered. "At first you wrote on the
title-page Douglas Guest as the author. Then apparently you changed
your mind, crossed it out, and substituted Douglas Jesson, which we took
to be a nom-de-plume, especially as you gave us for your address
initials to a post-office."

"Did any one else see it?"

"Not unless Drexley did. He has never spoken to me about it."

Douglas drank more wine. He was unused to it, and the colour mounted to
his pale cheeks.

"You have asked me a question," he said, "and it is answered. What
else?"

"Nothing," Rice said slowly. "It is no concern of mine.

"You are not anxious, then," Douglas said, "to earn a hundred pounds
reward?"

"I think if I were you," Rice said, "I would get the Courier to send you
abroad. They would do it in a minute."

"Abroad?" Douglas looked across the table questioningly. It was a new
idea to him. "Yes. You could visit odd places and write impressions of
them. Yours is just the style for that sort of thing--quick and
nervous, you know, and lots of colour. People are rabid for anything of
that sort just now. Take my tip. Suggest it to Rawlinson."

"I think I will," Douglas said. "Yes, it is a good idea. I wonder--"

Rice leaned once more across the table.

"You wonder what the Countess de Reuss will say. Is that it?"

Douglas nodded.

"I should consult her, of course."

A rare seriousness fell upon Rice. The nonchalance, which was the most
pronounced of his mannerisms, had fallen away. It was a new man
speaking. One saw, as it were for the first time, that his hair was
grey, and that the lines on his face were deeply engraven.

"My young friend," he said, "I want you to listen to me. I am twice
your age. I have seen very much more of the world than you. Years ago
I had a friend--Silverton. He was abo