On the evening of “Monday week” Heberdon was on his way to Greenhill Gardens again. Of the intervening time it is unnecessary to say much. He had got through it by virtue of doubled and re-doubled doses of cocaine by day and “sopora”—which one may guess is very much better known under another name—by night. Thanks to the sopora he had not been visited by any more such shattering dreams, but the combined attacks of the two drugs in reckless doses had had a visible effect. In thirteen days he looked older by as many years. At the office they were beginning to glance askance at him.
That afternoon just before leaving, Judge Palliser had sent for him. The judge was in a very bad temper.
“The Managuayan business is off,” he said bluntly.
“Why?” Heberdon had stammered.
“The I. F. C. won’t ha
