Sometimes it was all visionary and unreal—so visionary was it that he could not believe in its reality, but at other times he could not doubt. It was all real—tremendously real. Especially was it so as he thought of those after days when he had fought the greatest battles of his life. Again and again he had seen himself in the library at Wendover while Romanoff stood beside him and told him of his plans; again and again had he recalled the moment when he took the pen in his hand to sign the paper, and had felt the grip on his wrist which had paralysed his hand.
Was it real, or was it imaginary?
"Suppose I had signed it?" he had often asked himself; "where should I be now? I should be a rich man—the owner of old Charles Faversham's huge fortune. Possibly I should have married Lady Blanche Huntingford and acted the part of the rich squire. But what would Romanoff have exacted of me? What would be my thoughts about Tony Riggleton?"
Yes; those were wonderful days, whether they were a dream or a reality, and sometimes he called himself a fool for not following the Count's advice, while at others he shuddered to think of the dangers from which he had escaped.
He had never seen nor heard of Lady Blanche since. On his arrival in London he had written an explanatory letter, and had expressed the hope that she would not lose interest in him. But he had received no reply. Evidently she regarded him as a kind of an impostor, with whom she could no further associate herself.
Neither had he ever seen or heard of Romanoff. This dark, sinister man had passed away into the shadows, and only remained a strange memory, a peculiar influence in his life.
Of Tony Riggleton he had heard various stories, all of which were of the same nature. Tony had been true to the programme he had marked out. He had filled Wendover Park with a motley crowd of men and women, and the orgies there were the talk of the neighbourhood. He had also a flat in London where he had indulged in his peculiar tastes.
It was on hearing these stories that Dick had felt that he had acted the fool. He had become cynical, too, and laughed at the idea that virtue and honour were wise.
"If I had followed Romanoff's advice," he had said to himself, "I might have——" And repeatedly he had recounted what he might have done with the wealth which he had thought was his.
For many months Dick had a hard struggle to live. His few weeks of riches had unfitted him for the battle of life. Society was shaken to its foundations; the world was a maddening maze. Again and again he had offered himself for the Army—only to be rejected. He was conscious of no illness, but the doctors persistently turned him down.