y word and
movement.

Yesterday, sitting where he was, he would have been feeling out of
place, and irritable and awkward. Even a few hours ago he would have
felt oppressed and wanting to escape somewhere by himself. What lent him
this new magic of assurance and sense of mastery of his position?
Undoubtedly it was his battle with Voles.

Coffee was served to him in the smoking room, and there, sitting alone
with a cigar, he began clearly and for the first time to envisage his
plans for the future.

He could drop everything and run. Book a passage for the United States,
enter New York as Lord Rochester, just as a diver enters the sea, and
emerge as Jones. He could keep the eight thousand pounds with a clear
conscience--or couldn't he?

This point seemed a bit obscure.

He did not worry about it much. The main question had not to do with
money. The main question was simply this, shall I be Victor Jones for
the future, or shall I be the Earl of Rochester? The twenty-first Earl
of Rochester?

Shall I clear out, or stick to my guns? Remain boss of this show and try
and make something of the wreckage, or sneak off with nothing to show
for the most amazing experience man ever underwent?

Rochester had sneaked off. He was a quitter. Jones had once read a story
in the Popular Magazine, in which a Railway Manager had cast scorn on a
ne'er-do-well. "God does surely hate a quitter," said the manager.

These words always remained with him. They had crystallised his
sentiments in this respect: the quitter ranked in his mind almost with
the sharper.

All the same the temptation to quit was strong, even though the
temptation to stay was growing.

A loophole remained open to him. It was not necessary to decide at once;
he could throw down his cards at any moment and rise from the table if
the game was getting too much for him, or if he grew tired of it.

He saw difficult times ahead for him in the mess in which Rochester had
left his affairs--that was, perhaps, his strongest incentive to remain.

He was roused from his reverie by voices in the hall. Loud cheery
voices.

A knock came to the door and a servant announced: "Sir Hugh Spicer and
Captain Stark to see you, my Lord." Jones sat up in his chair. "Show
them in," said he.

The servant went out and returned ushering in a short bibulous looking
young man in evening dress covered with a long fawn coloured overcoat;
this gentleman was followed by a half bald, evil loo