unwholesome effect of solitude, the argument for the safety of
companionship even if quarrelsome. Very well. In this docility he
was sensible and even likeable. But what did he do next? Instead
of taking counsel as to the choice with his old backer and friend,
and a man, besides, knowing everybody employed and unemployed on
the pavements of the town, this extraordinary Renouard suddenly and
almost surreptitiously picked up a fellow--God knows who--and
sailed away with him back to Malata in a hurry; a proceeding
obviously rash and at the same time not quite straight. That was
the sort of thing. The secretly unforgiving journalist laughed a
little longer and then ceased to shake all over.

"Oh, yes. About that assistant of yours. . . ."

"What about him," said Renouard, after waiting a while, with a
shadow of uneasiness on his face.

"Have you nothing to tell me of him?"

"Nothing except. . . ." Incipient grimness vanished out of
Renouard's aspect and his voice, while he hesitated as if
reflecting seriously before he changed his mind. "No. Nothing
whatever."

"You haven't brought him along with you by chance--for a change."

The Planter of Malata stared, then shook his head, and finally
murmured carelessly: "I think he's very well where he is. But I
wish you could tell me why young Dunster insisted so much on my
dining with his uncle last night. Everybody knows I am not a