I cannot tell you what happened at the Society of Arts after that. I was already on my feet, hurrying after that back. It was the same back I had seen, in the same haste, leaving the Lyonnesse Club less than two hours ago.
He had got to the entrance hall before I caught him up. He accepted with rather disturbing docility the arm I slipped into his. All the fight had gone out of him; he might not have been the same man who had so recently tried to outface me about first novels. I looked at his face as we stood by the glass doors that opened on to John Street. It showed both fear and pain.
"What's the matter, Derry? Can I be of any help?" I asked him anxiously.
He muttered, "Yes—yes—about time I called somebody in—just about enough of it——"
"Do you want a doctor? Shall we call at a chemist's?"
He stared at me for a moment; then I vow he almost laughed.
"A doctor? No thanks. One dose a day's quite enough."
"Words," he replied, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the lecture chamber.
We passed out and into John Street, he accommodating his ordinary London-to-Brighton pace to mine. He once told me that five miles an hour was walking, six stepping out a bit, and anything over six and a half really "going."