Mortimer, his hands shaking, looked at his watch by the light of the electric bulbs flanking the gateway under which he stood.
There was not much time in which to make up his mind, yet his fright was increasing to a pitch which began to enrage him with that coward's courage which it is impossible to reckon with.
He had missed Quarrier once to-day when he had been keyed to the encounter.

Was he going to miss him again through sheer terror?
Besides, was not Quarrier a coward?
Besides, was it not his own money?
Had he not been vilely swindled by a pretended friend?
Urging, lashing himself into a heavy, shuffling motion, he emerged from the porte-cochere and lurched off down the street.

No time to think now, no time for second thought, for hesitation, for weakness.

He had waited too long already.

He had waited ten minutes, instead of five.