Anyhow I'll have a good time to-day, even if it must be the
last!' That day Harold was in Norcester on business. It was late when he went
to the club to dine. Whilst waiting for dinner he met Leonard Everard,
flushed and somewhat at uncertain in his speech. It was something of a
shock to Harold to see him in such a state. Leonard was, however, an old friend, and man is as a rule faithful to
friends in this form of distress. So in his kindly feeling Harold
offered to drive him home, for he knew that he could thus keep him out of
further harm. Leonard thanked him in uncertain speech, and said he would
be ready. In the meantime he would go and play billiards with the marker
whilst Harold was having his dinner. At ten o'clock Harold's dogcart was ready and he went to look for
Leonard, who had not since come near him. He found him half asleep in
the smoking-room, much drunker than he had been earlier in the evening. The drive was fairly long, so Harold made up his mind for a prolonged
term of uneasiness and anxiety. The cool night-air, whose effect was
increased by the rapid motion, soon increased Leonard's somnolence and
for a while he slept soundly, his companion watching carefully lest he
should sway over and fall out of the trap. He even held him up as they
swung round sharp corners. After a time he woke up, and woke in a nasty temper. He began to find
fault in an incoherent way with everything. Harold said little, just
enough to prevent any cause for further grievance. Then Leonard changed
and became affectionate. This mood was a greater bore than the other,
but Harold managed to bear it with stolid indifference. Leonard was this
by time making promises to do things for him, that as he was what he
called a 'goo' fell',' he might count on his help and support in the
future. As Harold knew him to be a wastrel, over head and ears in debt
and with only the succession to a small estate, he did not take much heed
to his maunderings. At last the drunken man said something which
startled him so much that he instinctively drew himself together with
such suddenness as to frighten the horse and almost make him rear up
straight. 'Woa! Woa! Steady, boy. Gently!' he said, quieting him. Then turning
to his companion said in a voice hollow with emotion and vibrant with
suppressed passion:

'What was it you said?' Leonard, half awake, and not half of that half master of himself,
answered:

'I said I will make you agent of Normanstand when I marry Stephen.' Harold grew cold. To hear of any one marrying Stephen was to him like
plunging him in a glacier stream; but to hear her name so lightly spoken,
and by such a man, was a bewildering shock which within a second set his
blood on fire. 'What do you mean?' he thundered. 'You marry Ste . . . Miss Norman! You're not worthy to untie her shoe! You indeed! She wouldn't look on
the same side of the street with a drunken brute like you! How dare you
speak of her in such a way!' 'Brute!' said Leonard angrily, his vanity reaching inward to heart and
brain through all the numbing obstacle of his drunken flesh. 'Who's
brute? Brute yourself! Tell you goin' to marry Stephen, 'cos Stephen
wants it. Stephen loves me. Loves me with all her red head! Wha're you
doin'! Wha!!' His words merged in a lessening gurgle, for Harold had now got him by the
throat. 'Take care what you say about that lady! damn you!' he said, putting his
face close the other's with eyes that blazed. 'Don't you dare to mention
her name in such a way, or you will regret it longer than you can think. Loves you, you swine!' The struggle and the fierce grip on his throat sobered Leonard somewhat. Momentarily sobbed him to that point when he could be coherent and
vindictive, though not to the point where he could think ahead. Caution,
wisdom, discretion, taste, were not for him at such a moment. Guarding
his throat with both hands in an instinctive and spasmodic manner he
answered the challenge:

'Who are you calling swine? I tell you she loves me. She ought to know. Didn't she tell me so this very day!' Harold drew back his arm to strike
him in the face, his anger too great for words. But the other, seeing
the motion and in the sobering recognition of danger, spoke hastily:

'Keep your hair on! You know so jolly much more than I do. I tell you
that she told me this and a lot more this morning when she asked me to
marry her.' Harold's heart grew cold as ice. There is something in the sound of a
voice speaking truthfully which a true man can recognise. Through all
Leonard's half-drunken utterings came such a ring of truth; and Harold
recognised it. He felt that his voice was weak and hollow as he spoke,
thinking it necessary to give at first a sort of official denial to such
a monstrous statement:

'Liar!' 'I'm no liar!' answered Leonard. He would like to have struck him in
answer to such a word had he felt equal to it. 'She asked me to marry
her to-day on the hill above the house, where I went to meet her by
appointment. Here! I'll prove it to you. Read this!' Whilst he was
speaking he had opened the greatcoat and was fumbling in the
breast-pocket of his coat. He produced a letter which he handed to
Harold, who took it with trembling hand. By this time the reins had
fallen slack and the horse was walking quietly. There was moonlight, but
not enough to read by. Harold bent over and lifted the driving-lamp next
to him and turned it so that he could read the envelope. He could hardly
keep either lamp or paper still, his hand trembled so when he saw that
the direction was in Stephen's handwriting. He was handing it back when
Leonard said again:

'Open it! Read it! You must do so; I tell you, you must! You called me
a liar, and now must read the proof that I am not. If you don't I shall
have to ask Stephen to make you!' Before Harold's mind flashed a rapid
thought of what the girl might suffer in being asked to take part in such
a quarrel. He could not himself even act to the best advantage unless he
knew the truth . . . he took the letter from the envelope and held it
before the lamp, the paper fluttering as though in a breeze from the
trembling of his hand. Leonard looked on, the dull glare of his eyes
brightening with malignant pleasure as he beheld the other's concern. He
owed him a grudge, and by God he would pay it. Had he not been
struck--throttled--called a liar! . . . As he read the words Harold's face cleared. 'Why, you infernal young
scoundrel!' he said angrily, 'that letter is nothing but a simple note
from a young girl to an old friend--playmate asking him to come to see
her about some trivial thing. And you construe it into a proposal of
marriage. You hound!' He held the letter whilst he spoke, heedless of
the outstretched hand of the other waiting to take it back. There was a
dangerous glitter in Leonard's eyes. He knew his man and he knew the
truth of what he had himself said, and he felt, with all the strength of
his base soul, how best he could torture him.