He fled--fled, surrounded by nightmare visions of horrible publicity in a law-court.

Unthinkable tortures! He damned Mr.
Oxford to the nethermost places, and swore that he would not lift a finger to save Mr.Oxford from penal servitude for life.
_Money-getting_ He stood on the kerb of the monument, talking to himself savagely.

At any rate he was safely outside the monument, with its pullulating population of midgets creeping over its carpets and lounging insignificant on its couches.

He could not remember clearly what had occurred since the moment of his getting up from the table; he could not remember seeing anything or anyone on his way out; but he could remember the persuasive, deferential voice of Mr.Oxford following him persistently as far as the giant's door.

In recollection that club was like an abode of black magic to him; it seemed so hideously alive in its deadness, and its doings were so absurd and mysterious.