t to a bit of candle he
found on a hall table. As the light dissolved the dark, Wilson saw the
taller man straighten before the anxious gaze of the driver.

"Sacre, are you going?" exclaimed the stranger, impatiently.

"Good night, sor."

"Good night." The words were uttered like a command.

The man went out slowly and reluctantly closed the door behind him.
The echo pounded suddenly in the distance.

No sooner was the door closed than the man remaining slumped like an
empty grain-sack and only prevented himself from falling by a wild
clutch at the bannister. He raised himself with an effort, the candle
drooping sidewise in his hand. His broad shoulders sagged until his
chin almost rested upon his breast and his big slouch hat slopped down
over his eyes. His breathing was slow and labored, each breath being
delayed as long as possible as though it were accompanied by severe
pain. It was clear that only the domination of an extraordinary will
enabled the man to keep his feet at all.

The stranger began a struggle for the mastery of the stairs that held
Wilson spellbound. Each advance marked a victory worthy of a
battlefield. But at each step he was forced to pause and rally all his
forces before he went on to the next. First he would twine his long
fingers about the rail reaching up as far as he was able; then he
would lift one limp leg and swing it to the stair above; he would then
heave himself forward almost upon his face and drag the other leg to a
level with the first, rouse himself as from a tendency to faint, and
stand there blinking at the next stair with an agonized plea as for
mercy written in the deep furrows of his face. The drunken candle
sputtered close to his side, flaring against the skin of his hand and
smouldering into his coat, but he neither felt nor saw anything. Every
sense was forced to a focus on the exertion of the next step.

Wilson had plenty of time to study him. His lean face was shaven save
for an iron-gray moustache which was cropped in a straight line from
one corner of his mouth to another. His eyes were half hidden beneath
shaggy brows. Across one cheek showed the red welt of an old sabre
wound. There was a military air about him from his head to his feet;
from the rakish angle to which his hat tumbled, to his square
shoulders, braced far back even when the rest of his body fell limp,
and to his feet which he moved as though avoiding the swing of a
scabbard. A military cape slipp