and he fully intended to make the most of it. Then at last, when the
game was finally over, he played half of his shots over again for
practice. And Vane, with his cue grasped in both hands, contemplated
braining him with the butt. . . .

But worse was still to come. Mr. Sutton prided himself on being old
fashioned. Early to bed and early to rise, a proverb which Vane had
always considered the most detestable in the English language, was one
of his host's favourite texts. Especially when applied to other
people. . . .

"Now, my dear," he said to Joan after he had missed an easy cannon
three times, and felt he required a little justification, "off you go
to bed. Can't have you missing your beauty sleep so close to your
marriage, or I'll have Baxter down on me like a ton of bricks."

Vane turned abruptly to the fire, and it is to be feared that his
thoughts were not all they might have been. In fact, he registered a
mental vow that if ever he was privileged to meet a murderer, he would
shake him warmly by the hand.

"Good night, Captain Vane." Joan was standing beside him, holding out
her hand. "I don't think you were playing very well to-night, were
you?"

The next moment the door had closed behind her, and Vane turned slowly
to answer some question of his host's. And as he turned he laughed
softly under his breath. For Joan had not even looked at him as she
said "Good night," and though the room was warm, almost to stuffiness,
her hand had been as cold as ice.

Vane closed the door of his room, and went thoughtfully over to the
fire. He was feeling more or less dazed, like a man who has been
through a great strain, and finds for the moment some temporary respite.

He did not profess to account for it; he did not even try to. There
had been other days that he had spent with Joan--days when he had been
far more physically close to her than he had been that evening. Save
for that one brief kiss in the billiard-room he had barely touched her.
And yet he felt more vividly alive to her presence than he had ever
been before.

Vane was no psychologist, and any way the psychology of sex follows no
rules. It makes its own as it goes along. And the one thought which
stood out from the jumbled chaos in his brain was a fierce pleasure at
having beaten Baxter. The primitive Cave man was very much alive in
him that night. . . .

Joan was _his_; he knew it, and she knew it--and there was no more to
be sai