But now all had come to an end. Directly after his dismissal by Olive Castlemaine he had cast all good resolutions to the winds, and as a consequence he was at that moment a laughing-stock to the town, to-morrow he would be an object of ridicule for the whole country. And Olive Castlemaine would know of it. Bridget Osborne would send the local newspaper to her, and she would read that——
What a thin veneer his so-called reformation was, and what a broken reed he was, in spite of all his boasted strength! He had been a poor thing whose moral elevation had depended on the smile of a woman, and when that smile was withdrawn, he had returned like a swine to its wallow!
But worse than all, there was the disgrace of it! Never before had he sacrificed his pride, never before had he given any one the opportunity of saying that he did not retain a full possession of his faculties. He who had boasted that he had nerves of steel, and that no whisky ever distilled could make him drunk!
He leaped out of bed, and with trembling hands opened his portmanteau. Ah! there it was—a bottle of whisky. He pulled out the cork, and then hesitated. Was he so weak, then, as to return to the poison that had made him the byword of clodhoppers? The thought staggered him, and possibly he might have put it from him, had not the smell of the whisky reached him. This was like a match to a powder magazine. He took a deep drink, and he felt better.
"If I had only been careful it would never have happened," he reflected. "I wonder now if——"
He heard a knock at the door.
"Yes."
"A gentleman to see you, sir."
"His name?"
"Mr. Grayburn, sir."