one to him.

"Yes," went on Dudley, as he showed him the directed letter, "it is to
the widow of the poor devil who was found in the Thames the other
day--man who was once in my late father's employment--Edward Jacobs."

"Oh, yes, I've heard," stammered Max again.

The incident of Dudley sending money to the woman would have seemed to
him trivial and even natural enough, if it had not been for the curious
look of hard defiance which Dudley gave him out of his black eyes. It
was like a challenge; it set his friend wondering again, asking himself
again all those tormenting questions about Edward Jacobs's death which
he had allowed to slip into a back place in his thoughts.

As he looked down at the end of the white table-cloth which touched the
floor a loud laugh from Dudley startled him and made him look up. And
when he did so the conviction that his friend was mad, or, at least,
subject to attacks of insanity, flashed into his mind more strongly than
ever. Dudley was leaning back, tilting his chair till it touched the
dinner table, distending his jaws in a hard, mocking laugh as unlike
mirth as possible.

"Oh, yes, so I've heard--so I've heard!" repeated he, mockingly. "And,
of course, that's all you've heard, isn't it? And you've never taken the
trouble to make any personal inquiries in the matter? Or thought of
taking a journey, say, as far as Plumtree Wharf to make any private
investigations?"

Max was startled. He saw clearly enough that which he would fain have
denied--that Dudley was in communication with the people at the wharf,
from whom he must have obtained this information. For a moment he was
silent. It was not until Dudley's harsh laughter had died away, and he,
rather surprised to see how quietly Max took his accusation, had wheeled
round in his chair to look at his friend, that Max said:

"Well, I did go to the wharf. And I'll tell you why. Doreen is breaking
her heart about you, and she would have me find out what was wrong with
you."

Then there was silence.

"God bless her!" said Dudley at last, in a hoarse whisper.

Another silence.

"What did you tell her?" whispered Dudley.

"What could I tell her? I said you were mad."

"And what did you--_think_?"

"Well, I hardly know myself."

"That's right! That's the proper attitude!" cried Dudley.

And then he laughed again uproariously.

And in the midst of his laughter there was a knock at the door.

For a moment neither man moved. T