Luck. He might have come out of it with the blank mind of a newborn
babe; and here he was, keen to resume his adventures. Luck. They had not
stopped to see if he was actually dead. Some passer-by in the hall
had probably alarmed them. That handkerchief had carried him round the
brink. Perhaps Fate intended letting him get through--written on his
pass an extension of his leave of absence. Or she had some new torture
in reserve.

Now for a stout walking stick. He selected a blackthorn, twirled it,
saluted, and posed before the mirror. Not so bally rotten. He would
pass. Next, he remembered that there were some flowers in the dining
room--window boxes with scarlet geraniums. He broke off a sprig and drew
it through his buttonhole.

Outside there was a cold, pale April sky, presaging wind and rain.
Unimportant. He was going down into the streets for an hour or so. The
colour and action of a crowded street; the lure was irresistible. Who
would dare touch him in the crowd? These rooms had suddenly become
intolerable.

He leaned against the side of the window. Roofs, thousands of them,
flat, domed, pinnacled; and somewhere under one of these roofs Stefani
Gregor was eating his heart out. It did not matter that this queer old
eagle whom everybody called Cutty had promised to bring Stefani home.
It might be too late. Stefani was old, highly strung. Who knew what
infernal lies Karlov had told him? Stefani could stand up under physical
torture; but to tear at his soul, to twist and rend his spirit!