easily. It had amused him rather to keep that "friend" in the dark
about the fate of his assistant. Renouard had never needed other
company than his own, for there was in him something of the
sensitiveness of a dreamer who is easily jarred. He had said to
himself that the all-knowing one would only preach again about the
evils of solitude and worry his head off in favour of some
forlornly useless protege of his. Also the inquisitiveness of the
Editor had irritated him and had closed his lips in sheer disgust.

And now he contemplated the noose of consequences drawing tight
around him.

It was the memory of that diplomatic reticence which on the terrace
had stiffled his first cry which would have told them all that the
man sought for was not to be met on earth any more. He shrank from
the absurdity of hearing the all-knowing one, and not very sober at
that, turning on him with righteous reproaches -

"You never told me. You gave me to understand that your assistant
was alive, and now you say he's dead. Which is it? Were you lying
then or are you lying now?" No! the thought of such a scene was
not to be borne. He had sat down appalled, thinking: "What shall
I do now?"

His courage had oozed out of him. Speaking the truth meant the
Moorsoms going away at once--while it seemed to him that he would
give the last shred of his rectitude to secure a day more of her
company. He sat on--silent. Slowly, from confused sensations,
from his talk with the professor, the manner of the girl herself,
the intoxicating familiarity of her sudden hand-clasp, there had