the neighbourhood, had started life as a barrister, in which
profession he had attained a moderate success, had enjoyed a brief
but not inglorious spell of soldiering, from which he had retired
slightly lamed for life, and had filled up the intervening period
in the harmless occupation of censoring. His friendship with
Furley appeared on the surface too singular to be anything else
but accidental. Probably no one save the two men themselves
understood it, and they both possessed the gift of silence.

"What's all this peace talk mean?" Julian Orden asked, fingering
the stem of his wineglass.

"Who knows?" Furley grunted. "The newspapers must have their
daily sensation."

"I have a theory that it is being engineered."

"Bolo business, eh?"

Julian Orden moved in his place a little uneasily. His long,
nervous fingers played with the stick which stood always by the
side of his chair.

"You don't believe in it, do you?" he asked quietly.

Furley looked straight ahead of him. His eyes seemed caught by
the glitter of the lamplight upon the cut-glass decanter.

"You know my opinion of war, Julian," he said. "It's a filthy,
intolerable heritage from generations of autocratic government.