When at last I could force a passage through the press—for they lingered like ghouls over the crumbs of the banquet—I broke into Holborn, with my whole soul panting and crying for fresh air and forgetfulness. It was hideous, it was inhuman, it was debasing, I cried to myself, to launch that quivering mass of terror into eternity in a public shambles! To such as came to see, it must be grossly demoralizing; to those who, like me, were enforced spectators, it was a sickening experience that must leave an impression of morbidity almost indelible.
Suddenly I felt a hand grasp my shoulder and a voice exclaim: “Renny, by all the saints!”
I turned—and it was Jason.
He held me at arm’s length and cried again: “Renny? Really?—and a true sportsman as of old!”
Then he leaned to me and whispered with a grin: “I say, old fellow, if it wasn’t for luck you might be any day where he stood just now.”
CHAPTER XIX.
A MENACE.
At first I hardly grasped the import of my brother’s words, or the fact that here was the old fateful destiny upon me again, so lost were the few faculties I could command in wonder at his unexpected appearance in London.
I stared and stared and had not a word to say.
“Where’s your tongue, old chap?” he cried. “This is an affectionate greeting on your part, upon my word, and after near four years, too.”
I pressed my hand across my forehead and strove to smooth the confusion therefrom.