"You are really on the staff of the _Ibex_?" he exclaimed.

The other nodded.

"I hold exactly the position," he said, "that I have described to you.
My own impression is, that without me the _Ibex_ would not exist for a
month. That is where the editor and I differ, unfortunately."

"It seems so odd," Douglas said. "Some time ago I sent a story to the
_Ibex_, and it was accepted. I have been looking for it to appear every
week."

The shrewd little eyes twinkled into his.

"What was the title?"

"'No Man's Land.' Douglas Jesson was the name."

The newcomer filled Douglas's glass with Chianti from his own modest
flask.

"Waiter," he said, "bring more wine. My friend, Douglas Jesson, we must
drink together. I remember your story, for I put the blue chalk on it
myself and took it up to Drexley. It is a meeting this, and we must
celebrate. Your story will probably be used next week."

Douglas's eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed. The flavour of
living was sweet upon his palate. Here he was, who, only twelve hours
ago, had gone skulking in the shadows looking out upon life with
terrified eyes, tempted even to self-destruction, suddenly in touch once
more with the things that were dear to him, realising for the first time
some of the dreams which had filled his brain in those long, sleepless
nights upon the hill-top. He was a wanderer in Bohemia, welcomed by an
older spirit. Surely fortune had commenced at last to smile upon him.

"You are on a visit here?" his new friend asked, "or have you come to
London for good?"

"For good, I trust," Douglas answered, smiling, "for I have burned my
boats behind me."

"My name is Rice, yours I know already," the other said. "By-the-bye, I
noticed that the postmark of your parcel was Feldwick in the Hills,
somewhere in Cumberland, I think. Have you seen the papers during the
last few days?"

Douglas's left hand gripped the table, and the flush of colour, which
the wine and excitement had brought into his cheeks, faded slowly away.
The pleasant hum of voices, the keen joy of living, which, a moment
before, had sent his blood flowing to a new music, left him.
Nevertheless he controlled himself and answered steadily.

"I have had nothing else to do during the last few days but read the
papers."

"You know about the murder, then?"

"Yes."

Mr. Rice was interested. He passed his cigarette case across the table
and called for Kummel.

"I wonder," he said, "di