to the arsenal.
The Lodge was always seething with hate; Theosophists themselves might
have taken lessons from this exponent; and the result of Cyril's intervention
had been to disintegrate the entire structure. Douglas found his prestige gone,
and his income with it. Addiction to drink, which had accompanied his
magical fall, now became an all-absorbing vice. He was never able to rebuild
his Lodge on its former lines; but those who thirsted for knowledge and
power and these he still possessed in ever increasing abundance as he himself
decayed — clung to him, hating and envying him, as a young ruffian of the
[122] streets will envy the fame of some robber or murderer who happens to
fill the public eye.
It was with this clot of perverse feelings that Balloch approached the Rue
Quincampoix, one of the lowest streets in Paris, and turned in at the den
where Douglas lodged.
S.R.M.D. was lying on a torn soiled sofa, his face white as death; a mottled
and empurpled nose, still showing trace of its original aggressive and haughty
model, alone made for colour. For his eyes were even paler than the doctor's.
In his hand was a bottle half full of raw whisky, with which he was seeking to
restore his vitality.
"I brought you some whisky," said Balloch, who knew the way to favour.
"Put it down, over there. You've got some money."
Balloch did not dare to lie. S.R.M.D. had spotted the fact without a word.
Only a cheque. You shall have half to-morrow when I've cashed it."
"Come here at noon.
Despite the obvious degradation of his whole being, S.R.M.D. was still
somebody. He was a wreck, but he was the wreck of something indubitably
big. He had not only the habit of command, but the tone of fine manners. In
his palmy days he had associated with some very highly placed people. It was
said that the Third Section of the Russian Police Bureau had once found a use
for him.
"Is the Countess at home?" asked Balloch, apparently in courtesy.
"She's on the Boulevard. Where else should she be, at this time of night?"
It was the vilest thing charged against that vile parody of a man, his
treatment of his wife, a young, beautiful, talented, and charming girl, the
sister of [123] a famous Professor at the Sorbonne. He had delighted to
reduce her to the bedraggled street-walker that she now was.
Nobody knew what Douglas did with his money. The contributions of his