The month of October had half run its course, the Continental¹ Meccas were nearly deserted², the pilgrims were returning in shoals day by day, and the London club-houses were no longer the temples of desolation that they had been for the last two months.

In the smoke-room of his club, in the easiest of easy-chairs, sat Kester St. George, cigar in mouth, his hat tilted³ over his eyes, musing⁴ bitterly over the hopes, follies⁵, and prospects⁶ of his broken life. And his life was, in truth, a broken one. With what fair prospects had he started from port, and now, at thirty-three years of age, to what a bankrupt ending he had come! One way or another he had contrived⁷ until now to surmount⁸ his difficulties, or, at least, to tide them over for the time being; but, at last, the net seemed to be finally closing around him. Of ready money he had next to none. His credit was at an end. Tailor, bootmaker, and glover had alike shut their doors in his face. A three months' bill for two hundred and fifty pounds would fall due in about a week's time, and he had absolutely no assets with which to meet it; nor was there the remotest possibility of his being able to obtain a renewal⁹ of it. He had made sure of winning heavily on certain races, but the horses he had backed had invariably come to grief; and it was only by making a desperate effort that he had been able to meet his engagements and save his credit on the turf. When he should have pawned¹⁰ or sold his watch and the few rings and trinkets that still remained to him, and should have spent the few pounds realized

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