He had to go back to town. It was something urgent. Stonehouse was not
to bother. He would be all right now.
The next day Stonehouse stalked and brought down his first "Royal." This
time the chase had cost him every ounce of his endurance, and in the
chill dusk he stood watching the gillie at his work on the lovely body
(still so warm and lissom that one could almost see the last sorrowful
heaving of its golden flanks) with a kind of stolid triumph as though now
he had wiped out that other failure, for he realized that he had been
both too sanguine and too impatient. When you were angling a man with a
sick brain back to health, you had to go slowly--delicately.
"It's because I care," he thought, half amused and half angry. "And why
do I care? It's as he said--a rotten habit."
But he returned to town. He tracked Cosgrave to his former
lodging-house, where a stout, heavily-breathing landlady showed every
readiness to be communicative and helpful.
"Yes, sir--he's here again--I think he was expecting you--mentioned your
name--he's out now and won't be back till late--dinner at the Carlton, he
said. If you'd like to leave a note, sir----"
She led him upstairs and watched him with a fat amusement as he stood
silent and frowning on the threshold.
"It _is_ a fair mess," she admitted blandly. "I was just trying to get
things a bit together when you rang, sir. I'm to throw away all that old
stuff, he said.
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