He loved his wife and she hated him. He saw the world red as he walked along, careless of which way he went.
She loved Dakers! Feathers, ugly Feathers, who had never looked at a woman in his life! He laughed aloud at the thought.
And Feathers was his friend! They had been more than brothers, and now this tragic thing had occurred.
Presently he found himself outside Feathers' rooms in Albany Street, standing on the path, staring aimlessly at the door.
Why had he come there? He did not know. But he went up the steps and rang the bell.
Mr. Dakers was out, the maid told him, but he passed her and went up to his friend's room.
There was a packed portmanteau in one corner and the hearth was strewn with torn-up papers. Some whiskey and soda stood on the table, and Chris helped himself to a stiff dose.
He felt better after that, though there was a stabbing pain in his temples, and he sat down and leaned his head in his hands.
What should he say when Feathers came in? What should he do?
He tried to think, but he could grip nothing definitely. All thought 254 melted away from him as soon as he thought he had got it.