a week later, julia, who had gone to bed early, woke up suddenly at midnight. for a moment she lay wondering what had awakened her, used as she was to the long unbroken sleep of youth. she became conscious of a steady rhythmical sound in the next room, quite different from the prosaic music to which she was accustomed. when she realized that it was her husband pacing back and forth, back and forth, like a captured beast of the forest, she trembled for a moment, then invoked her nerve, slipped on a dressing-gown, and opened the door.

the lights were blazing. france, his coat off, his hair on end, was pacing up the room as she entered, and when he reached the wall, he flung his hands against it as if to push it outward. then he turned and saw his wife. his eyes were bloodshot.

“go back to bed,” he said thickly. “i don’t want you.”

“what do you want?” julia walked toward him, fear lost in her curiosity. “what is the matter, harold? are you ill? if you are, i must take care of you.”

he stared at her for a moment. there were times when he hated her, others when he was quite mad about her; during the intervals of varying length he did not think about her at all. to-night he suddenly experienced a new sensation. he needed a friend badly, and it was her business to fill any office he chose to impose upon her.

“look here,” he said. “would you do me a good turn?”

“why, of course.”

“and use all the brains you’ve got and hold your tongue?”

“try me.”

“think you could fool kingsborough?”

“oh, quite easily.”

“well, it’s this: i’ve got to get away for a time—out of this. i ain’t a child, ain’t used to walkin’ a straight line. never had so many rules to live by since i was a small boy. navy was nothin’ to it—and two years! two years—” he clutched his hair with both hands and shouted: “i’ve got to get away for a bit! do you hear? got to get away! ain’t used?—”

“do you mean that you want to go away and drink?”

france’s jaw fell. he took a step forward.

“what d’you mean? who’s ever said—”

“no one in particular. but one learns a good deal in two years. didn’t you used to drink now and again—disappear?—”

“what if i did? i’ll wring your neck if you peach?—”

“i haven’t the least idea of telling any one. it is the sort of family secret one doesn’t share. where do you intend to go?”

“i’d hardly thought—it doesn’t matter. how can i fool him? if he found me out, he’d chuck me, cut me down to the last penny, he’s such a damned milksop—and in my shoes, in my shoes! think for me. my brain’s no good. it’s on fire. let him find out and it’s all up with you, too, my lady. it’s your business to stand by me. wonder i didn’t think of that before.”

“you’ll go to paris to-morrow to consult a heart specialist?—”

“i tell you i’ve got to get out of this to-night. if i don’t, the roof’ll be off before breakfast. do you suppose i can wait for a lot of palaver? i’d have been off before this, but i can’t think of a ghost of an excuse.”

“you can’t find a better than that, and you can go to-night. he knows your heart is weak, or was. i’ll tell him i became terrified and packed you off without delay. get out your portmanteau, and i’ll look up the trains in bradshaw.”