A sudden revulsion of thought made Melville sick and giddy. It was as if a gambler who had lost all but his last five-franc piece had, after hesitation, staked en plein and followed with a run of wins on single numbers. One cannot follow up the gambler's line of thought, but many a one whom that fortune befell would be almost sick to think how narrowly he missed his chance. Melville was a gambler pure and simple. An instant before he had been upon the very point of death because he did not know whence money could be got, and without money he did not want to live. Yet here in his bag was a letter which might mean at least a hundred pounds. Of course, he might lose his stake, but to kill himself without having made the venture was intolerable.
The physical endurance of the strongest man has its limitations, and Melville staggered into the sitting-room and threw himself into a great armchair. Here presently he was discovered by his valet, who was frightened by his master's complete collapse. Some hours passed by before he regained anything like his usual self-control, and then, resolutely putting out of his mind all thought of how close he had been to death, he began to consider the best time and manner of making his final venture to raise money.
A train left Waterloo at six-forty, which would land him at Fairbridge Manor at eight o'clock. If he went by that train he would in all probability find Sir Geoffrey Holt in a good humour after dinner. He even took the precaution of changing his clothes again, substituting a somewhat shabby lounge suit for his elaborate frock coat. "May as well look the part," he said sardonically to himself. "The Prodigal Son was a bit baggy at the knees, I imagine, and that is the scene I'm on in now. I shall have to draw on my imagination about the husks all the same."
There was something almost heroic—in a wicked fashion—in his effort to pull himself together, for his recent temptation to commit suicide had really shaken him. He drank freely of the spirits in his tantalus as he was dressing, and all the while tried to anticipate every difficulty in the interview before him.
"If only Ralph is out of the way I may pull it off. His letter will serve to account for one hundred of the last two-fifty, and I can gas about some forgotten bills to explain how most of the rest has gone. It's a fighting chance anyhow, and if I fail there is still the pistol."
From one thought sprang another.
"There is still the pistol!"
With a curiously furtive action Melville took the revolver from his portmanteau and slipped it into his pocket. Then he crept downstairs, and, hailing a hansom, drove to Waterloo.
But when the train steamed into Fairbridge Station, Melville was not in it. He was so restless that he could not endure the swaying of the carriage, and getting out two stations short of his destination he resolved to walk the rest of the way.
Leaving the high road he made his way down to the river and followed the towing path. It was getting dark, but the rain had ceased; the silence was intense, and the occasional splash of a water-rat startled him so much that he was angry with himself for being in so highly strung and nervous a condition.