Blair came back to town, thin, and pale, and haggard, with only one desire in his heart: to forget the past and kill the present! He had been wild and reckless as a youth, and it had only been his love for Margaret that had checked him in his road to ruin.

If she had still been by his side, he would have swung round and become one of the steadiest of men—she would have been his saving and guardian angel. But he had lost her, and with her all that had made his life worth living.

So he came back to the old life in London, hating it with a weariness bitter as death, and yet not knowing of any other way in which to kill time and escape from the past.

As Austin Ambrose had said, his friends were glad to see him, but they were aghast at the change which a few weeks had wrought in the old light-hearted Blair; and the pace he was going alarmed even the most reckless of them.

They dared not ask him any questions, for there was something about him, a touch of savageness and smothered bitterness in his manner which warned them that any display of curiosity would be resented.

"I can't make Blair out," said Lord Aldmere to Colonel Floyd. It was at a well-known club which does not open its doors until well-regulated people have gone to bed. "What he has been doing, Heaven only knows; but I never saw a man so changed. Why it was only this summer that he was in the best of form bright as a—a star, don't you know, and now—look at him!" he concluded, glancing across the room at Blair, as he sat moodily over the fire, a big cigar in his mouth, his haggard face drooping on his breast, his sad eyes fixed gloomily on the ground. "Never saw such a change in a man in all my life."

"He has been ill, you know," said the colonel, eying the drooping, listless figure with a troubled regard; "had a fever and all that kind of thing."

"Yes—I know," said the marquis, stammeringly; "but other fellows have had fevers, and they don't cut up like that. I had the fever—no, I think it was measles, or mumps, or something, but I pulled round all right, and was as jolly as a sandboy after all. It isn't the fever that's done it, Floyd; there's something else, depend upon it. Where has he been all this time? nobody knows exactly."

"You'd better ask him," said the colonel, with grim irony.

"Ask him!" stuttered the marquis; "I dare say! I expect I should get my head snapped off! Some fellow said something about Paris yesterday, and turning to Blair, said: 'But you were there then, weren't you, Blair?' and Blair just turned and glared at him as if he was going to eat him! No, by George, you bet I don't ask him anything!"

"Perhaps you'd better not," assented the colonel. "Discretion is the better part of valor. But he isn't always like this, is he?" he asked, in an undertone.

"No, not always," replied Aldmere. "He'll wake up presently and pull himself together, and then he'll go into the dining-room and order some dinner, and as like as not when it comes he'll march out and leave it! I've seen him do it two or three times, by Jove! and then later on he'll take a big drink, and when he's livened up a bit, he'll go down to the Green Table."

The colonel whistled. The Green Table was the fashionable gaming club, and the proprietor might appropriately have inscribed over its handsome stone doorway, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!" for many a man had found cause to rue the hour in which he passed its portals.

There was no more dangerous place in all London than the Green Table, and Colonel Floyd's whistle was not by any means superfluous.

"And does he win?" he asked.

"Sometimes, but not often," replied the marquis. "Loses four nights out of five. Seems to have lost his game, too. You know how good he was at most things? First rate all round man, you know. But now he seems to have lost his head, and plays like a man in a dream. I saw him miss two points at baccarat last night. Poor old Blair!"

"Poor old Blair!" echoed the colonel. "Can't something be done?"

The young marquis shook his head sadly.

"Who could do anything? In the old times, Blair was as good-natured a fellow as you'd meet in a day's walk; but, by George! as I said, you dare not speak to him now. If one of us were to drop a word signifying that he was going to the devil—well, by jingo! he'd send us there ourselves, and pretty sharp."

"I suppose it was some love affair?" said the colonel, thoughtfully.

"Don't know. Perhaps so. There is one fellow who could tell us, and that's that fellow Austin Ambrose."

The colonel made a grimace.

"I hate that fellow more than ever," he said. "He's back, too, by the way. Shouldn't wonder if he has been with Blair all the time, and isn't, in some way or other, mixed up with the business. I never thought that fellow up to much."

"Don't see what harm he could be up to," said the young marquis. "And so the fair Violet won't go down to Scotland this autumn, eh, Floyd?"

"No," said the colonel, ruefully; "and so I can't, either, confound it! Not that there seems much use in hanging about, for one can't get a civil word from her lately."

"They say," whispered the marquis, "that she's still sweet on Blair."

The colonel glanced over at him and shrugged his shoulders.

"Then she's wasting that same sweetness on desert air, Aldy, for to my certain knowledge he hasn't been near Park Lane since he came back. Hallo, talk of the devil—here is that fellow!"

For Austin Ambrose entered the room in his peculiar noiseless fashion, and, bestowing a nod upon the colonel and the marquis, crossed the room to Blair's chair.

Blair looked up as Austin Ambrose greeted him, looked up with that listless, spiritless glance which speaks so eloquently of the wrecked hopes and consequent despair.

"Well Blair," said Austin Ambrose, with his slow smile. "Thought I should find you here! You've dined, of course?"

Blair thought a moment as if he were trying to recollect.

"No, I haven't," he said.

"No?" cheerfully. "Come and have some grilled bones with me."

"I hate grilled bones," was the listless response.

Austin Ambrose laughed and dropped into a chair.

"So do I, if it comes to that, but man must eat to live; but never mind the bones. Blair," and he leaned forward, "you have seen the evening paper?"

"No," said Blair, lighting his cigar, which he had allowed to die out.

"No! Then you don't know that Springtime has lost?"

"Has he?" was the indifferent response. "Did I back him?" and he passed his thin wasted hand over his forehead.

Austin Ambrose raised his eyebrows.

"Did you back him? My dear Blair, what a question! Didn't you tell me this morning to get what odds I could?"

"Yes, I remember," said Blair, leaning back and gazing into the fire. "That's the horse you thought so well of, isn't it?"

Austin Ambrose colored faintly.

"Well, I don't know. I would not put it exactly that way. But I did think he had a chance, and I backed him myself for as much as I could afford," he said in a much lower tone than Blair had used, for he did not want the marquis and the colonel to hear them.

"And he lost?" said Blair, indifferently. "Well, somebody must lose," and he shrank back in his chair as if he were both weary and cold.

"I suppose the money is all right?—I mean that you have a balance at the bank?" said Austin Ambrose.

Blair nodded languidly.

"I suppose so. Oh, yes, I think so," he said, carelessly. "If not, Tyler & Driver will see to it."

Then he relapsed into his old attitude, and into the silence which had lately become habitual to him. Presently he rose and absently took two or three turns up and down the room. He was the shadow of his former self in bulk, but the stalwart frame was there still, and the marquis and Floyd watched him sadly.

"Going home, Blair?" said the colonel, in that tone of forced cheerfulness which we use toward a friend that has been stricken down by illness or a great sorrow.

"Home?" he said, with a little start and suppressed shudder. "Good heavens, no! What should I do with the rest of the night?"

"It's morning now," said the marquis with a yawn. "Why not go to bed, old man?"

"No, thank you," said Blair with a grim smile. "Why should I go to bed?"

"Why, to sleep," replied the young lord.

"Yes, but I don't sleep," came the instant retort. "No, I think I'll go down to the Green Table."

"Oh, hang the Green Table!" exclaimed the colonel. "What's the use of going to that beastly place?"

"As for that, what's the use of going to any beastly place?" said Blair, and he rang the bell and asked for his overcoat.

"We'd better go with him, I suppose?" whispered the marquis; and when the footman had helped Blair on with his coat, they got theirs and followed him; Austin Ambrose walking by his side, his face calm and serene with its cool, set smile.

The tables at the gaming club seemed pretty well crowded, but Blair found a chair presently and began to play. The marquis and Colonel Floyd stood behind him with Austin Ambrose.

Neither of the men had spoken a word to him, beyond returning his greeting as he entered the club, but now impelled by his anxiety on Blair's account, the marquis addressed him.

"I say, Ambrose, you know," he interposed; "poor old Blair is going to the—de—devil, don't you know!"

Austin Ambrose shook his head.

"He was always very wild," he said in an undertone, without removing his eyes from Blair's cards.

"Wild! Yes; but not like this. What's come to him?—what's happened to him? He's like a man half off his head, poor old chap. Look how he's playing now! Why, a child could beat him. And he plays so confounded high. I've heard there's a lot of money in the family; but, hang it all, a gold mine couldn't stand it!"

Austin Ambrose heaved a deep sigh.

"I quite understand your feelings, my dear marquis; but what am I to do? If you think my poor friend is a man to be coaxed or managed, well, try it."

The marquis swore under his breath.

"I will!" he said, and laying his hand on Blair's shoulder, he said, in an undertone: "Old fellow, the luck is dead against you to-night; throw the cards up and come away."

Blair turned as a man might turn from a dream, and looked up at him.

"Oh, is it you, Aldy? I beg your pardon. Want to go? All right, just wait till I have had another hand. The luck is against me, as you say, but what does it matter?" and he smiled. "The next best thing to winning is losing, you know."

"You see!" said Austin Ambrose in a low voice. "What is to be done? I have tried everything, but it is of no use," then he bent over Blair, and said:

"Are you coming my way, Blair? I am going now."

"No, I think not," was the listless reply. "Going? Good-night."

The marquis and Colonel Floyd walked out of the club.

"I wonder what that fellow's game is," said the latter, "for, mark my words, Aldy, he has a game, all these sort of men have. Did you see his face when poor Blair lost?"

"No, I was watching the cards," said the marquis.

"Well, I wasn't. I was watching our palefaced friend, and if it was sorrow on his face, then I don't know joy when I see it. I don't know what his game is, and I can't even guess at it, but if he isn't winning it, then I'm a Dutchman."

Blair played on until the daylight came in faint streaks through the Venetian blinds of the card room, and the hour of closing arrived. Then he rose as listless and weary, as unmoved and calm as when he sat down.

"You have lost," said Austin Ambrose, who still stood beside him.

"Yes, I think so. Oh, yes, heavily."

"Heavily!" echoed Austin Ambrose. "My dear Blair! And you have had a run of bad luck all the week?"

"Yes, luck has been against me," assented Blair, and he beckoned to a footman who brought him some champagne.

"You don't know how much you have lost?" continued Austin Ambrose, watching him as he drank the wine.

"No, not exactly. I told them to send the I O U's to Tyler & Driver's. Are you going now? I am afraid I have kept you."

"To Tyler & Driver's!" said Austin Ambrose, as he strove to keep pace with Blair's long strides. "My dear fellow, Tyler told me only yesterday that you had overdrawn your account, and that he did not know how to arrange! And that was before this loss on Springtime! And there are those I O U's to-night! Good heavens, my dear Blair, you will be utterly ruined."

Blair stopped and took out his cigar-case.

"Got a light?" he said. "Never mind, I've found one. Ruined? Do they say that? Well, they ought to know," and he laughed grimly. "So they say I am ruined; well, what does it matter? If I am broke, I am the only person to whom it will signify. If I were a married man, now, and had got a wife——" He stopped, and the hand that held his cigar quivered in the lamplight; "but I haven't, you see. Ruined! Well, perhaps it's as well. What do fellows do when they go under, Austin? Why, go abroad, don't they? I'll go abroad. I'll go to Boulogne, and be a billiard marker, or I'll work my way out to Australia and turn cattle runner." He stopped abruptly and looked up at the sky, now streaked with the red rays of the coming sun. "Oh, Austin, if I could only go to some place where I could forget her! She haunts me—haunts me day and night! Go where I will, do what I will, I see her before me, just as she looked as she stood on the hill waving her hand the last morning"—his voice broke—"the last time I saw her. Oh, my darling, my darling!"

He stopped with a great sob, and then hurried on, drawing his hat over his eyes.

Austin Ambrose watched him with keen scrutiny, much as a surgeon might watch the subject upon which he was experimenting with saw and knife.

"Blair," he said, panting a little, for his victim walked fast. "You should fight against this weakness. It is ruining you, body and soul. It is not fair to yourself, or to your best friends. To me, for instance, or to the earl."

"The earl!" said poor Blair, with a bitter laugh. "What does he care?"

"Or to Violet. Don't be angry, now," for Blair had turned upon him almost savagely. "She is your friend, and you know it. Why don't you go and see her?"

"Why? Because I can go and see no one!" groaned the unhappy man. "I tell you my lost darling haunts me continually. I see her so plainly sometimes that I can scarcely believe she is really dead!"

Austin Ambrose started, then smiled reassuringly to himself.

"How can I mix with my fellow men in the state I am in? You must give me time, man!" he cried almost savagely. "Give me time!"

They had reached Blair's chambers by this, and with a nod he turned and slowly mounted the stairs.

Austin Ambrose, left alone, leant against the lamp-post and, panting a little, lit a cigar, his cold, gray eyes fixed upon the light that shone in Blair's window.

"You fool!" he muttered. "You simple fool! I've got you in my net—and her, too! Give you time! Yes, you shall have time, but whether you take long or come quickly I have got you!"

For a week after this Austin Ambrose saw nothing of him; he was missed at his club, and—very much—missed at the Green Tables. No one could tell where he had gone, but in truth he was wandering with a knapsack on his back through an out-of-the-way part of the country, solitary and companionless save by his own sad thoughts.

At the end of the week Violet Graham was sitting moodily by the fire, thinking of him and of the dark mystery of Margaret Hale's death, wondering whether all her passionate desires would be fulfilled, when a servant opening the door quietly, said:

"Lord Leyton."

She started to her feet, the blood coursing through her veins; then, suddenly remembering Austin Ambrose's advice, sank down again, and, looking over her shoulder, said, in a low and rather languid voice:

"Oh, is that you, Blair?"

Blair was very much relieved by the manner of his reception. He had expected, and dreaded, a fuss, and he was grateful to her for sparing him.

"Yes, it's I," he said, taking her hand, which trembled a little, for all her efforts to keep it steady. "You didn't expect to see me. I ought to have called before, but——" he hesitated and looked down, as men do who are bad at excuses.

"But you are given to leaving undone what you should do, and doing that which you should leave undone!" she said, with a soft laugh. "Of course, I am glad to see you. Come nearer the fire. It is an awful evening, isn't it?"

"Beastly!" he said, and he drew his chair up to the fire.

"You are just in time for tea. Shall we have lights?"

"No," he replied, "unless you want them. I like this firelight."

"It is rather cozy," she said. "I am fond of it myself. Will you ring the bell?"

He rang the bell, and the servant brought in the tea-tray, with its little silver kettle, and placed it upon the small table near by.

The fire burned brightly, the kettle sang, the richly yet tastefully-furnished room was redolent of luxurious comfort, and poor Blair nestled into his chair, and thought of the "beastly" weather outside.

Violet stole a glance at him as she busied herself with her tea-making, and a sharp pang shot through her as she saw in the firelight the pale, haggard face, which she had last seen so bright and careless.

She was just about to say: "You have been very ill, haven't you?" but once again she remembered Austin Ambrose's caution, and, instead, she said:

"Where have you been, Blair?"

He started, and roused himself.

"Lately, do you mean?" he said, looking at the fire still. "I have been wandering about Somersetshire."

"Not shooting with a party?"

"No," he answered. "I have been alone. Just tramping round to—to kill time. I have been rather seedy, you know, but I am all right now," he added, quickly, as if he feared she might question him.

All right! Her heart ached, but she forced a smile.

"You don't take any care of yourself, Blair," she said, lightly, though her soul was filled with bitterness at the thought that it was the loss of that "other woman" which had wrought such havoc with him. "Here is your tea; I think I remember how you like it."

"It is first rate," he said. "You always used to make good tea, Vi."

The color mounted to her face at the sound of the familiar name. How long it was since she had heard him use it.

"Did I? It is about the only thing I can do properly."

Then she went on talking in a light and cheerful tone, the sort of talk that exacts almost nothing from the listener—gossip about places and people he knew, the last scandal of the five o'clock teas, pleasant chat, to which he could listen or not, just as he chose. And Blair did not listen all the time, but sat looking at the fire, with his teacup in his hand, and marveling in a dreamy fashion at the faithfulness of women.

This girl—the most hunted heiress in London, pretty, accomplished, every way desirable, whom he had neglected, almost deserted—received him as if he had been most devoted and steadfast. It was wonderful!

His heart smote him, and he felt drawn toward her in a curious kind of way.

After all, it is to the women men go when trouble smites them. There is no heart so tender, no sympathy so sure as that of a woman.

What a brute he had been not to come near her all this time! he thought, and under the impulse of his self-reproach he felt inclined to tell her all.

"Vi," he said, abruptly, breaking into the middle of some story she was telling him.

"Well?" she said, turning her face to him, with a sudden light in her eyes, a light of hope and expectancy.

"I want to tell you," he said, passing his hand across his brow, "you know I have been in trouble lately. You may have heard something of it from Austin——"

"From Austin Ambrose?" she said. "No. Why should he tell me?"

"I didn't know. I thought perhaps he would. Vi, I have had a rough time of it—a very rough time of it. I don't think any man has suffered more than I have, during these last few months."

He leant forward in his chair, and put up his hand, so that it hid his face from her.

"Tell me, Blair," she said. "Poor Blair!" and stretching out her hand she laid it, softly as a feather, upon his.

Something in her voice, or perhaps it was the touch of her hand, reminded him of Margaret so keenly that he shuddered and his face went white.

She felt the shudder, and her acute sense saw the danger.

"Stop, Blair," she murmured. "Perhaps it is better that you should not tell me. Whatever it is—and it must have been something terrible—it will be well that you should forget it; and you won't forget it any the sooner by talking of it. No, don't tell me! But I am very sorry, Blair, very—very." Her face paled, and her lips, which were very close to his face as she bent forward, quivered. "I think I would go through a great deal to save you from pain, Blair. We are such old friends, are we not?"

"Yes—yes," he said, brokenly, and he put out his hand, and took hers and pressed it. "Yes, you were always good to me—too good, Vi. I don't deserve that you should be so kind now, after leaving you all this time!"

"Never mind that," she murmured, and her voice was as soft and tender as only a woman's can be to the man she loves. "Don't let us think of that. I will be as kind as you like, Blair!"

The poor fellow's wounded heart was aching; his strength, mental and physical, broken down by illness and the long, dreary tramp; something suspiciously like tears shone in his eyes, and he raised her hand to his lips in speechless gratitude for her kindness and gentleness.

"Oh, not my hand, dear!" she murmured, and slipping down at his knees, she put up her lips.

Blair bent down and kissed her, as he was bound to do. He could not have done otherwise, and by that kiss he sealed his fate. And yet, even as he gave it, the sweet face of Margaret rose as plainly before him as if it were she and not Violet Graham who knelt at his feet.