In the enclosure at Kempton Park he introduced me to a strikingly handsome and stylish young lady, Miss Violet Alexander, and took the earliest opportunity of telling me in a confidential whisper that she was an actress and immensely clever. Both these statements I afterwards found to be true in a sense; I did not understand at the time. She was extremely gracious, and I was much flattered when she invited me to take a cup of tea with her at her flat in Bedford Park. She soon fascinated me completely, and after my second visit I was madly in love, or thought I was. Captain Wyngate, to whose experience I resorted as a matter of course, suggested that a handsome present would advance matters very materially. He kindly undertook to find out from the lady what would be most acceptable to her, and the result was the transfer of a lace dress and a diamond star to Miss Violet's abode, and a hole of seven hundred pounds in my bank account. Both these presents were purchased (very much above their real value, as I afterwards found out) at shops recommended by Captain Wyngate, on the ground that they were "the" place for such things, and that gifts were always more appreciated when the lady knew they came from the very best places. My gifts certainly did not disgrace even the wardrobe of Miss Violet Alexander. They made her even more gracious than before, and but for the rude awakening that came soon afterwards there is no knowing what further follies she would have made me commit.
One night, when we were to have gone to a new play at the Gaiety, the captain felt out of sorts and decided to stay indoors with a book and a pipe. I returned home rather late, and, as I passed his room, I heard choking, inarticulate sounds. Thinking he must be ill, I opened the door quietly and looked in. He was lying in bed, tossing uneasily and muttering in his sleep. While I waited—wondering if I ought to wake him—his muttering went on, broken here and there by an intelligible word.
"'HANDS OFF!' HE ALMOST SHOUTED, AND STARTED UP IN BED."
"The Rigi—Came for your health—Hate looking over precipices, do you?—Oh, don't be a baby!—Two thousand feet down—Ah, I've done it!"
Beads of perspiration started out on his forehead, and he groaned as if suffering agonies.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Hands off!" he almost shouted, and started up in bed, a horrible expression of fear on his face.
"Why, Wyngate, old chap, you seem to be having a first-class nightmare," I remarked.