“By Jove, that’s good,” he said, as he put the empty glass down and drew a long, deep breath. “You only really appreciate that sort of thing after a long abstinence like mine.”

“I should think so,” laughed Garthorne, putting down his own empty glass; “although good and all as a brandy and soda is, especially after a rather hot night, I should hardly think it was worth while to be T.T. for two years just to get the full flavour of it. If you don’t mind I’ll have another.”

“Certainly, old fellow, help yourself,” said Vane, pushing the decanter towards him. “That’s made a new man of me. When I got up this morning I couldn’t eat a scrap of breakfast, but that’s made me absolutely hungry. The bacon’s cold, of course, but there’s a nice bit of tongue and some brawn, and there’s some toast and brown bread and butter. Sit down and have a bite. The coffee’s cold, but I can soon get up some hot if you’d like it.”

“Oh, never mind about that,” said Garthorne. “I’m getting a bit peckish myself, and I’ll have a bite with you with pleasure; but I’m afraid hot coffee on the top of brandy and soda at this time of the morning would produce something of a conflict in the lower regions. I think another B. and S. would go ever so much better with it.”

As he said this he helped himself and pushed the decanter back towards Vane, saying, “and if you’ll take my advice you’ll do the same. It can’t hurt you, especially if you’re eating.”

“Still, I think I’d better eat something first,” said Vane, as he set out the breakfast things and began to carve. “The hot plates are cold, so there will be enough for both. By Jove, that stuff has given me an appetite!”

“Yes, I thought it would do you good,” said Garthorne. “Get something solid inside you and have another drink, and you’ll be able to face your most reverend Chancellor with as much confidence as though you were his father-in-law. I’ll mix you another if you’ll allow me while you’re carving. Give me about half and half, please.”

“But don’t give me half and half,” said Vane, with a laugh that sounded rather strangely in his own ears, and then, without looking round, he went on carving.

Garthorne poured a much more liberal quantity of brandy into Vane’s glass than he had done into his own, and at once filled it up with soda-water from the syphon.

“I think you’ll find that about right,” he said, putting it down beside him.

“Thanks, old fellow,” said Vane; “much obliged!” He put the knife and fork down, lifted the glass and took a sip. “Yes, that’s about right, I think,” he said, without even noticing the strength of the mixture. And then, with the unnatural appetite which the unaccustomed spirit had roused in him, he took up his knife and fork and began to eat ravenously, taking a gulp of the brandy and soda almost between each mouthful.

They laughed and chatted merrily over the old days as they went on eating and drinking; and as glass succeeded glass Vane became more and more communicative and Garthorne more and more cordial. He quickly learnt the truth of many things which so far he had only suspected, and at last he managed to lead the conversation adroitly up to a point at which Vane said in a somewhat thick, unsteady voice:

“By the way, Garthorne, yes, that reminds me. You remember that night at the Empire when we had a bit of a row, Boat-race night, you know that girl that I got out of the crowd pretty girl, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” replied Garthorne, repressing a desire to laugh out openly. “I remember her quite well; a very pretty girl, and, if I may say so without paying you a compliment, very like your noble self. In fact, if such a thing hadn’t been utterly impossible, she might almost have been

“My sister!” said Vane, as he drank off the remains of his fourth brandy and soda and put the glass down with a thump on the table. “Yes, that’s it, my sister, or at least not quite my sister, but at least well, half-sister, you understand my mother’s daughter, but not my father’s see?”

“I see, I see,” said Garthorne, and then, before he could get any farther, there was a quick knock at the door. Vane looked dreamily round, and said:

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Ernshaw entered, followed by Sir Arthur Maxwell.

“Good heavens, Maxwell! what on earth does this mean?” exclaimed Ernshaw, with something like a gasp in his voice, as he saw Vane sitting at the table in his shirt-sleeves the friend with whom he had sat in this same room the night before and had that long solemn talk the friend who had given him such solemn pledges.

The table was littered and disordered, the coffee pot had got knocked over; there was a cup lying on its side in the saucer; a dish of bacon containing a couple of rashers and two eggs congealed in fat, and scraps of meat and broken bits of bread and butter lay about on the cloth.

This was like anything but one of the many orderly breakfasts which he had shared with Maxwell at the same table; but what startled Ernshaw more than anything else was the sight of the empty glass beside his friend’s plate, the brandy decanter with less than a wine-glassful in it, and the two empty soda syphons on the table.

“Good morning, Ernshaw! Morning, dad! Jolly glad to see you. Come in and sit down and have a drink I mean, a bit of breakfast. The coffee’s cold, but I can get you some more if you wouldn’t rather have brandy and soda plenty more brandy in the cupboard, soda too. Get it out and help yourselves. Dad, you know Garthorne, of course. Ernshaw, you don’t; let me introduce you very good fellow old rival of mine in love you know who with, the fellow I had a fight with on the steamer both kids first man to come and congratulate me this morning. Admits that I licked him then as a boy, and have licked him since as a man took better degree than he did. Still, nice of him to come, wasn’t it? Come on, Ernshaw; don’t stand there staring. Come on and have a drink, too, and congratulate, you old stick. Never mind about last night, I’ve got that all under now; fought it for two years and beaten it. Can take a drink now without fear of consequences. Taken lots this morning, and look at me, sober as the Chancellor. Why, dad, what’s the matter?”

Sir Arthur Maxwell had come up to Oxford to see his own old academic triumphs repeated with added brilliance by his son. He had fully approved of all that Vane had done during the two years’ probation which he had set himself, and he had firmly believed that the end of it all would be, as he had many a time said to Enid’s father, that the hard study, the strenuous mental discipline, and the stress of healthy emulation, would utterly destroy the germs of that morbid feeling which, for a time at least, had poisoned the promise of his son’s youth. He had only arrived from Town, bringing Enid and her father, that morning, as they had found it impossible to get rooms in Oxford over night. He had met Ernshaw in the High, and they had come together to Vane’s rooms to find this!

Like a flash that other scene in Warwick Gardens came back to him. While his son was speaking he had looked into his eyes and seen that mocking, dancing flame which he had now a doubly terrible reason to remember, and to see it there in his eyes now on the morning of the crowning day of his youth, shining like a bale-fire of ruin through the morning sky of his new life. It was like looking down into hell itself.

As Vane came towards him he staggered back as though he hardly recognised him. Then, for the first time for nearly thirty years since a well-remembered night among the Indian Hills, the room swam round him and the light grew dark. He made a couple of staggering steps towards the sofa, tripped over the edge of a rug, and rolled over, half on and half off the sofa.

The sight sobered Vane instantaneously, though only for an instant.

“Dad, what’s the matter?” he cried again. “My God, Ernshaw, what is it? Tell me, what is it what have I done? Let me go and see what’s wrong with him.”

Then with stumbling steps he tried to get round the table. The corner of it caught his thigh. He lurched sideways and dropped to the floor like a man shot through the brain.

Garthorne was already kneeling by the sofa on to which he had lifted Sir Arthur’s head and shoulders, and had loosened his tie and collar.

“Poor Vane,” he said, looking round. “I’m afraid the excitement of this morning has been a bit too much for him. If we’re going to get them round in time, perhaps you’d better ring up his scout and send him for a doctor.”

“Yes,” said Ernshaw, looking up from where he was kneeling by Vane. “I suppose that’s about the best thing to do, since the crime which you have committed is unfortunately not one which warrants me in sending for a policeman as well.”

“Crime, sir, what the devil do you mean?” cried Garthorne, springing to his feet.

“I mean,” said Ernshaw slowly and without moving, “exactly what I say. I feel perfectly certain from what I know of Maxwell that this could not possibly have occurred unless he had been deliberately tempted to drink. Your motives, of course, are best known to yourself and to Him who will judge them.”

“So that’s it, is it?” said Garthorne, with a harsh laugh. “You think I made him drunk for some purpose of my own, a man that I’ve been friends with ever since we punched each other’s heads as boys. Well, you’ve been a good chum to Maxwell, so for his sake I’ll pass over that idiotic remark of yours, and tell you for your information that he had been drinking before I came into the room at all.”

“It’s a lie!” exclaimed Ernshaw, springing to his feet and going towards the bell. “Nothing on earth could make me believe that.” And then he rang the bell.

“I’m not accustomed to being called a liar,” said Garthorne very quietly, “without resenting it in practical form; but as you don’t seem to be quite yourself, and as there is so much physical difference in my favour, I’ll take the trouble to convince you that I am speaking the truth.”

He went into the bedroom and brought out Vane’s coffee-cup.

“Smell that,” he said.

Ernshaw took the cup and raised it to his nose. The strong smell of brandy rising from the dregs was unmistakable. Then there came a knock at the door, and Vane’s servant came in.

“Oh, good Lord, gentlemen, whatever is the matter?” he exclaimed, looking at Sir Arthur’s prostrate form on the sofa and Vane’s on the floor.

“Never mind about that just now,” said Garthorne curtly; “help us to carry Mr. Maxwell to his room. Then you’d better undress him and get him to bed. I suppose you can see what’s the matter, and I hope also that you’ve learnt to hold your tongue.”

“Yes, sir,” said the scout. “No man ever served a better master than Mr. Maxwell, and I hope I know my duty to him.”

Then the three of them picked up Vane’s limp, loose-jointed form from the floor and carried him into his bedroom and laid him on the bed.

“Now,” Garthorne continued, “I want you to tell Mr. Ernshaw whether I came here after or before Mr. Maxwell had his coffee.”

“A good half-hour after, I should say, sir,” said the scout, looking a little mystified. “You see, I brought it up about a quarter past eight, and he was up then and half dressed. He must have drunk it soon after, because he never will drink coffee unless it’s hot. If it had got cold he’d have had some more up, and you came a bit before nine, sir. He must have drunk it before then.”

“Very well,” said Garthorne. “Now, can you remember whether the decanters in the spirit-case were filled up last night?”

“No, sir,” said the scout. “I filled them up the first thing this morning myself, thinking that Mr. Maxwell would have some friends come to see him on a day like this.”

“Thank you,” said Garthorne; “that’ll do, I think. Now you’d better get Mr. Maxwell undressed.”

“Yes,” said Ernshaw. “But what about Sir Arthur? Surely we ought to get a doctor for him as soon as possible.”

“I am going for a doctor at once,” said Garthorne, “if you will tell me where I can find one. I have given him a spoonful of brandy, and I’m going to give him another. Just come in here for a moment, please. You can’t do anything for Maxwell yet.”

Ernshaw followed him into the sitting-room, and as he took up the decanter Garthorne went on, holding up the brandy decanter, which had only a few spoonfuls left in it:

“Look at that. You heard what his man said. Do you mean to tell me that I could have drunk even half of that since nine o’clock and be as sober as I certainly am? The idea is absurd.”

Then he poured out a little into a wine-glass, put his hand under Sir Arthur’s head, and let a few drops trickle between his lips. Sir Arthur, who had been gradually regaining consciousness, drew a deep breath which ended in a cough. Then he opened his eyes and said:

“What’s the matter? Where am I? Where’s Vane?”

“You have had a great shock, Sir Arthur,” said Garthorne, in a tone so gentle and kindly that Ernshaw started at it. “Vane has been taken ill, too, and we are putting him to bed. I’m just going for a doctor.”

Then he laid Sir Arthur’s head back on the cushion and said, rising to his feet:

“Now, Mr. Ernshaw, I think that’s about all I can do for the present. If you will tell me where I can find Maxwell’s doctor I’ll go and send him, and then I’ll go on and tell Sir Godfrey, not what has really taken place, but that something has happened which may prevent Maxwell leaving his rooms to-day.”

Ernshaw scribbled the name and address of the doctor on the back of an envelope and gave it to Garthorne, saying, rather hesitatingly:

“There it is, Mr. Garthorne. I’m afraid I’ve been too hasty in what I said to you, and I must confess that you’ve taken it as very few men would have done. But if you only knew all that Vane has been to me during the last two years, and how awful this seems to me

“My dear sir, don’t say any more about it,” Garthorne interrupted good-humouredly. “I know enough of poor Vane’s story to see exactly what you mean. We’ll consider it all unsaid, and now I must be off.”