“Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. ‘Pitiful. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. Earles drew out his cheque book. Without care he will die. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once.
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