Chapter 2

“I speak figuratively. You’ve got to rediscover the comforts of your
life by losing them for a little. You have good food and all the rest of
it at your command–well, you’ve got to be in want for a bit to
appreciate them. You’re secure and respected and rather eminent–well,
somehow or other get under the weather. If you could induce the
newspapers to accuse you of something shady and have the devil of a job
to clear yourself it might do the trick. The fact is, you’ve grown too
competent. You need to be made to struggle for your life again–your
life or your reputation. You have to find out the tonic of difficulty,
and you can’t find it in your profession. Therefore I say ‘Steal a
horse.'”

A faint interest appeared in the other’s eyes.

“That sounds to me good sense. But, hang it all, it’s utterly
unpractical. I can’t go looking for scrapes. I should feel like
play-acting if in cold blood I got myself into difficulties, and I take
it that the essence of your prescription is that I must feel desperately
in earnest.”

“I’m not prescribing. Heaven forbid that I should advise a friend to
look for trouble. I’m merely stating how in the abstract I regard your
case.”

The patient rose to go. “Miserable comforters are ye all,” he groaned.
“Well, it appears you can do nothing for me except to suggest the
advisability of crime. I suppose it’s no good trying to make you take a
fee?”

The doctor shook his head. “I wasn’t altogether chaffing. Honestly, you
would be the better of dropping for a month or two into another world–a
harder one. A hand on a cattle-boat, for instance.”

Sir Edward Leithen sighed deeply as he turned from the doorstep down the
long hot street. He did not look behind him, or he would have seen
another gentleman approach cautiously round the corner of a side-street,
and, when the coast was clear, ring the doctor’s bell. He was so
completely fatigued with life that he neglected to be cautious at
crossings, as was his habit, and was all but slain by a motor-omnibus.
Everything seemed weary and over-familiar–the summer smell of town, the
din of traffic, the panorama of faces, pretty women shopping, the
occasional sight of a friend. Long ago, he reflected with disgust, there
had been a time when he had enjoyed it all.

He found sanctuary at last in the shade and coolness of his club. He
remembered that he was dining out, and bade the porter telephone that he
could not come, giving no reason. He remembered, too, that there was a
division in the House that night, an important division advertised by a
three-line whip. He declined to go near the place. At any rate, he would
have the dim consolation of behaving badly. His clerk was probably at
the moment hunting feverishly for him, for he had missed a consultation
in the great Argentine bank case which was in the paper next morning.
That also could slide. He wanted, nay, he was determined, to make a
mess of it.

Then he discovered that he was hungry, and that it was nearly the hour
when a man may dine. “I’ve only one positive feeling left,” he told
himself, “the satisfaction of my brute needs. Nice position for a
gentleman and a Christian!”

There was one other man in the dining-room, sitting at the little table
in the window. At first sight he had the look of an undergraduate, a
Rugby Blue, perhaps, who had just come down from the University, for he
had the broad, slightly stooped shoulders of the football-player. He had
a ruddy face, untidy sandy hair, and large reflective grey eyes. It was
those eyes which declared his age, for round them were the many fine
wrinkles which come only from the passage of time.

“Hullo, John,” said Leithen. “May I sit at your table?”

The other, whose name was Palliser-Yeates, nodded. “You may certainly
eat in my company, but I’ve got nothing to say to you, Ned. I’m feeling
as dried-up as a dead starfish.”

They ate their meal in silence, and so preoccupied was Sir Edward
Leithen with his own affairs that it did not seem to him strange that Mr
Palliser-Yeates, who was commonly a person of robust spirits and
plentiful conversation, should have the air of a deaf-mute. When they
had reached the fish, two other diners took their seats and waved them a
greeting. One of them was a youth with lean, high-coloured cheeks, who
limped slightly; the other a tallish older man with a long dark face, a
small dark moustache, and a neat pointed chin which gave him something
of the air of a hidalgo. He looked weary and glum, but his companion
seemed to be in the best of tempers, for his laugh rang out in that
empty place with a startling boyishness. Mr Palliser-Yeates looked up
angrily, with a shiver.

“Noisy brute, Archie Roylance!” he observed. “I suppose he’s above
himself since Ascot. His horse won some beastly race, didn’t it? It’s a
good thing to be young and an ass.”

There was that in his tone which roused Leithen from his apathy. He cast
a sharp glance at the other’s face.

“You’re off-colour.”

“No,” said the other brusquely. “I’m perfectly fit. Only I’m getting
old.”

This was food for wonder, inasmuch as Mr Palliser-Yeates had a
reputation for a more than youthful energy and, although forty-five
years of age, was still accustomed to do startling things on the
Chamonix _aiguilles_. He was head of an eminent banking firm and
something of an authority on the aberrations of post-war finance.

A gleam of sympathy came into Leithen’s eyes.

“How does it take you?” he asked.

“I’ve lost zest. Everything seems more or less dust and ashes. When you
suddenly wake up and find that you’ve come to regard your respectable
colleagues as so many fidgety old women and the job you’ve given your
life to as an infernal squabble about trifles–why, you begin to wonder
what’s going to happen.”

“I suppose a holiday ought to happen.”

“The last thing I want. That’s my complaint. I have no desire to do
anything, work or play, and yet I’m not tired–only bored.”

Leithen’s sympathy had become interest.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

The other hesitated. “Yes,” he said at length. “I saw old Acton Croke
this afternoon. He was no earthly use. He advised me to go to Moscow and
fix up a trade agreement. He thought that might make me content with my
present lot.”

“He told _me_ to steal a horse.”

Mr. Palliser-Yeates stared in extreme surprise. “You! Do you feel the
same way? Have you been to Croke?”

“Three hours ago. I thought he talked good sense. He said I must get
into a rougher life so as to appreciate the blessings of the life that
I’m fed up with. Probably he is right, but you can’t take that sort of
step in cold blood.”

Mr Palliser-Yeates assented. The fact of having found an associate in
misfortune seemed to enliven slightly, very slightly, the spirits of
both. From the adjoining table came, like an echo from a happier world,
the ringing voice and hearty laughter of youth. Leithen jerked his head
towards them.