Or fate, if you like it better, for it was fated that Bobby should find that day the thing he was in search of.

He dined at a little club he patronised in a street off St. James's Street, met a friend named Foulkes, and adjourned to the Alhambra, Foulkes insisting on doing all the paying.

They left the Alhambra at half-past ten.

"I must be getting back to the Albany," said Bobby. "I'm sharing rooms with a chap, and he's an early bird."

"Oh, let him wait," said Foulkes. "Come along for ten minutes to the Stage Club."

They went to the Stage Club. Then, the place being empty and little amusement to be found there, they departed, Foulkes declaring his determination to see Bobby part of the way home.

Passing a large entrance hall blazing with light and filled with the noise of a distant band, Foulkes stopped.

"Come in here for a moment," said he. In they went.

The place was gay—very gay. Little marble-topped tables stood about; French waiters running from table to table and serving guests—ladies and gentlemen.

At a long glittering bar many men were standing, and a Red Hungarian Band was discoursing scarlet music.

Foulkes took a table and ordered refreshment. The place was horrid. One could not tell exactly what there was about it that went counter to all the finer feelings and the sense of home, simplicity, and happiness.

Bobby, rather depressed, felt this, but Foulkes, a man of tougher fibre, seemed quite happy.

"What ails you, Ravenshaw?" asked Foulkes.

"Nothing," said Bobby. "No, I won't have any more to drink. I've work to do——"

Then he stopped and stared before him with eyes wide.

"What is it now?" asked Foulkes.

"Good Lord!" said Bobby. "Look at that chap at the bar!"

"Which one?"

"The one with the straw hat on the back of his head. It can't be—but it is—it's the Relative."

"The one you told me of that fired you out and cut you off with a shilling?"

"Yes. Uncle Simon. No, it's not, it can't be. It is, though, in a straw hat."

"And squiffy," said Foulkes.

Bobby got up and, leaving the other, strolled to the bar casually. The man at the bar was toying with a glass of soda-water supplied to him on sufferance. Bobby got close to him. Yes, that was the right hand with the white scar—got when a young man "hunting"—and the seal ring.

The last time Bobby had met Uncle Simon was in the office in Old Serjeants' Inn. Uncle Simon, seated at his desk-table with his back to the big John Tann safe, had been in bitter mood; not angry, but stern. Bobby seated before him, hat in hand, had offered no apologies or exculpations for his conduct with girls, for his stupid engagement, for his idleness. He had many bad faults, but he never denied them, nor did he seek to minimise them by explanations and lies.

"I tried to float you," had said Uncle Simon, as though Bobby were a company. "I have failed. Well, I have done my duty, and I clearly see that I will not be doing my duty by continuing as I have done; the allowance I have made you is ended. You will now have to swim for yourself. I should never have put money in your hands; I quite see that."

"I can make my own living," said Bobby. "I am not without gratitude for what you have done——"

"And a nice way you have shown your gratitude," said the other, "tangling yourself like that—gaming, frequenting bars."

So the interview had ended. Frequenting bars!

"Uncle Simon!" said Bobby half-nervously, touching the other on the arm.

Uncle Simon swung slowly round. Bobby might have been King Canute for all Uncle Simon knew. He had got beyond the stage where the word "uncle" from a stranger would have aroused ire or surprise.

"H'are you?" said Simon. "Have a drink?"

Yes, it was Uncle Simon right enough, and Bobby, in all his life, had never received such a shock as that which came to him now with the full recognition of the fact. St. Paul's Cathedral turned into a gambling-shop, the Bishop of London dressed as a clown, would have been nothing to this. He was horrified. He came to the swift conclusion that Uncle Simon had come to smash somehow, and gone mad. A vague idea flew through his mind that his respected relative was dressed like this as a disguise to avoid creditors, but he had sense enough not to ask questions.

"I don't mind," said he; "I'll have a small soda."

"Small grandmother," said the other; then, nodding to the bar-tender, "'Nother same as mine."

"What have you been doing?" asked Bobby vaguely, as he took the glass.

"Roun' the town—roun' the town," replied the other. "Gl'd to meet you. What've you been doin'?"

"Oh, I've just been going round the town."

"Roun' the town, that's the way—roun' the town," replied the other. "Roun' an' roun' and roun' the town."

Foulkes broke into this intellectual discussion.

"I'm off," said Foulkes.

"Stay a minit," said Uncle Simon. "What'll you have?"

"Nothing, thanks," said Foulkes.

"Come on," said Bobby, taking the arm of his relative.

"W'ere to?" asked the other, hanging back slightly.

"Oh, we'll go round the town—round and round. Come on." Then to Foulkes, "Get a taxi, quick!"

Foulkes vanished towards the door.

Then Simon, falling in with the round-the-town idea, arm-in-arm, the pair threaded their way between the tables, the cynosure of all eyes, Simon exhibiting dispositions to stop and chat with seated and absolute strangers, Bobby perspiring and blushing. All the lectures on fast living he had ever endured were nothing to this; the shame of folly, for the first time in his life, appeared definitely before him, and the relief of the street and the waiting taxi beyond words.

They bundled Simon in.

"No. 12, King Charles Street, Westminster," said Bobby to the driver.

Uncle Simon's head and bust appeared at the door of the vehicle, the address given by Bobby seeming to have paralysed the round-the-town idea in his mind.

"Ch'ing Cross Hotel," said he. "Wach you mean givin' wrong address? I'm staying Ch'ing Cross Hotel."

"Well, let's go to Charles Street first," agreed Bobby.

"No—Ch'ing Cross Hotel—luggage waitin' there."

Bobby paused.

Could it be possible that this was the truth? It couldn't be stranger than the truth before him.

"All right," said he. "Charing Cross Hotel, driver."

He said good-bye to Foulkes, got in, and shut the door.

Uncle Simon seemed asleep.

The Charing Cross Hotel was only a very short distance away, and when they got there Bobby, leaving the sleeping one undisturbed, hopped out to make enquiries as to whether a Mr. Pettigrew was staying there; if not, he could go on to Charles Street.

In the hall he found the night porter and Mudd.

"Good heavens! Mr. Robert, what are you doing here?" said Mudd.

Bobby took Mudd aside.

"What's the matter with my uncle, Mudd?" asked Bobby in a tragic half-whisper.

"Matter!" said Mudd, wildly alarmed. "What's he been a-doing of?"

"I've got him in a cab outside," said Bobby.

"Oh, thank God!" said Mudd. "He's not hurt, is he?"

"No; only three sheets in the wind."

Mudd broke away for the door, followed by the other.

Simon was still asleep.

They got him out, and between them they brought him in, Bobby paying the fare with the last of his sovereign.

Arrived at the room, Mudd turned on the electric light, and then, between them, they got the reveller to bed. Folding his coat, Mudd, searching in the pockets, found a brass door-knocker. "Good Lord!" murmured Mudd. "He's been a-takin' of knockers."

He hid the knocker in a drawer and proceeded. Two pounds ten was all the money to be found in the clothes, but Simon had retained his watch and chain by a miracle.

Bobby was astonished at Simon's pyjamas, taken out of a drawer by Mudd; blue and yellow striped silk, no less.

"He'll be all right now, and I'll have another look at him," said Mudd. "Come down, Mr. Robert."

"Mudd," said Bobby, when they were in the hall again, "what is it?"

"He's gone," said Mudd; "gone in the head."

"Mad?"

"No, not mad; it's a temporary abrogation. Some of them new diseases, the doctor says. It's his youth come back on him, grown like a wisdom tooth. Yesterday he was as right as you or me; this morning he started off for the office as right as myself. It must have struck him sudden. Same thing happened last year and he got over it. It took a month, though."

"Good heavens!" said Bobby. "I met him in a bar, by chance. If he's going on like this for a month you'll have your work cut out for you, Mudd."

"There's no name to it," said Mudd. "Mr. Robert, this has to be kept close in the family and away from the office; you've got to help with him."

"I'll do my best," said Bobby unenthusiastically, "but, hang it, Mudd, I've got my living to make now. I've no time to hang about bars and places, and if to-night's a sample——"

"We've got to get him away to the country or somewhere," said Mudd, "else it means ruin to the business and Lord knows what all. It's got to be done, Mr. Robert, and you've got to help, being the only relative."

"Couldn't that doctor man take care of him?"

"Not he," said Mudd; "he's given me instructions. The master is just to be let alone in reason; any thwarting or checking might send him clean off. He's got to be led, not driven."

Bobby whistled softly and between his teeth. He couldn't desert Uncle Simon. He never remembered that Uncle Simon had deserted him for just such conduct, or even less, for Bobby, stupid as he was, had rarely descended to the position he had found Uncle Simon in a little while ago.

Bobby was young, generous, forgetful and easy to forgive, so the fact that the Relative had deserted him and cut him off with a shilling never occurred to his open soul at this critical moment.

Uncle Simon had to be looked after. He felt the truth of Mudd's words about the office. If this thing were known it would knock the business to pieces. Bobby was no fool, and he knew something of Simon's responsibilities; he administered estates, he had charge of trust-money, he was the most respected solicitor in London. Heavens! if this were known, what a rabbit-run for frightened clients Old Serjeants' Inn would become within twenty-four hours!

Then, again, Bobby was a Ravenshaw. The Ravenshaws were much above the Pettigrews. The Ravenshaws were a proud race, and the old Admiral, his father, who lost all his money in Patagonian Bonds, was the proudest of the lot, and he had handed his pride to his son.

Yes, leaving even the office aside, Uncle Simon must be looked after.

Now if U. S. had been a lunatic the task would have been abominable but simple, but a man who had suddenly developed extraordinary youth, yet was, so the doctor said, sane—a man who must be just humoured and led—was a worse proposition.

Playing bear-leader to a young fool was an entirely different thing to being a young fool oneself. Even his experience of an hour ago told Bobby this; that short experience was his first sharp lesson in the disgustingness of folly. He shied at the prospect of going on with the task. But Uncle Simon must be looked after. He couldn't get over or under that fence.

"Well, I'll do what I can," said he. "I'll come round to-morrow morning. But see here, Mudd, where does he get his money from?"

"He's got ten thousand pounds somewhere hid," said Mudd.

"Ten thousand what?"

"Pounds. Ten thousand pounds somewhere hid. The doctor told me he had it. He drew the same last year and spent five in a month."

"Five pounds?"

"Five thousand, Mr. Robert."

"Five thousand in a month! I say, this is serious, Mudd."

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" said Mudd. "Don't tell me—I know—and, me, I've been working forty years for five hundred."

"He couldn't have taken it out with him to-day, do you think?"

"No, Mr. Robert, I don't think he's as far gone as that. He's always been pretty close with his money, and closeness sticks, abrogation or no abrogation; but it's not the money I'm worritin' so much about as the women."

"What women?"

"Them that's always looking out for such as he."

"Well, we must coosh them off," said Bobby.

"You'll be here in the morning, Mr. Robert?"

"Yes, I'll be here, and, meanwhile, keep an eye on him."

"Oh, I'll keep an eye on him," said Mudd.

Then the yawning night porter saw this weird conference close, Mudd going off upstairs and Bobby departing, a soberer and wiser young man even than when he had entered.

It was late when he reached the Albany. Tozer was sitting up, reading a book on counterpoint.

"Well, what luck?" asked Tozer, pleased at the other's gravity and sobriety.

"I've found a plot," said Bobby; "at least, the middle of one, but it's tipsy."

"Tipsy?"

"It's my—Tozer, this is a dead secret between you and me—it's my Relative."

"Your uncle?"

"Yes."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Bobby explained.

Tozer made some tea over a spirit lamp as he listened, then he handed the other a cup.

"That's interesting," said he, as he sat down again and filled a pipe. "That's interesting."

"But look here," said the other, "do you believe it? Can a man get young again and forget everything and go on like this?"

"I don't know," said Tozer, "but I believe he can—and he seems to be doing it, don't he?"

"He does; we found a knocker in his coat pocket."

"I beg your pardon, a what?"

"A door-knocker; he must have wrung it off a door somewhere, a big brass one, like a lion's head."

"How old is he?"

"Uncle?"

"Yes."

"Sixty."

Tozer calculated.

"Forty years ago—yes, the young chaps about town were still ringing door-knockers then; it was going out, but I had an uncle who did it. This is interesting." Then he exploded. He had never seen Simon the solicitor, or his mirth might have been louder.

"It's very easy to laugh," said Bobby, rather huffed, "but you would not laugh if you were in my shoes—I've got to look after him."

"I beg your pardon," said Tozer. "Now let me be serious. Whatever happens, you have got a fine ficelle for a story. I'm in earnest; it only wants working out."

"Oh, good heavens!" said Bobby. "Does one eat one's grandmother? And how am I to write stories tied like this?"

"He'll write it for you," said Tozer, "or I'm greatly mistaken, if you only hang on and give him a chance. He's begun it for you. And as for eating your grandmother, uncles aren't grandmothers, and you can change his name."

"I wish to goodness I could," said Bobby. "The terror I'm in is lest his name should come out in some mad escapade."

"I expect he's been in the same terror of you," said Tozer, "many a time."

"Yes, but I hadn't an office to look after and a big business."

"Well, you've got one now," said Tozer, "and it will teach you responsibility, Bobby; it will teach you responsibility."

"Hang responsibility!"

"I know; that's what your uncle has often said, no doubt. Responsibility is the only thing that steadies men, and the sense of it is the grandfather of all the other decent senses. You'll be a much better man for this, Bobby, or my name is not Tozer."

"I wish it were Ravenshaw," said Bobby. Then remembrance made him pause.

"I ought to tell you——" said he, then he stopped.

"Well?" said Tozer.

"I promised you to stop—um—fooling after girls."

"That means, I expect, that you have been doing it."

"Not exactly, and yet——"

"Go on."

Bobby explained.

"Well," said Tozer, "I forgive you. It was good intent spoiled by atavism. You returned to your old self for a moment, like your Uncle Simon. Do you know, Bobby, I believe this disease of your uncle's is more prevalent than one would imagine—though of course in a less acute form. We are all of us always returning to our old selves, by fits and starts—and paying for the return. You see what you have done to-day. Your Uncle Simon has done nothing more foolish, you both found your old selves.

"Lord, that old self! All the experience and wisdom of the world don't head it off, it seems to me, when it wants to return. Well, you've done it, and when you write your story you can put yourself in as well as your uncle, and call the whole thing, 'A Horrible Warning.' Good night."