the entry he turned his head slowly. Apparently no one had been
there, nothing had been disturbed. Straining his eyes through the
darkness, he could even see that dark shape still lying huddled up
on the ground. Then he walked on. He had burned his boats now and
was prepared for all emergencies. At the corner he met a policeman,
to whom he wished a cheery good-night. He told himself that the
thing which he had done was for the best. He owed it to himself.
He owed it to those who had trusted him. After all, it was the
chief part of his life - his city career. It was here that his
friends lived. It was here that his ambitions flourished. Disgrace
here was eternal disgrace. His father and his grandfather before
him had been men honored and respected in this same circle. Disgrace
to him, such disgrace as that with which he had stood face to face a
few hours ago, would have been, in a certain sense, a reflection
upon their memories. The names upon the brass plates to right and
to left of him were the names of men he knew, men with whom he
desired to stand well, whose friendship or contempt made life worth
living or the reverse. It was worth a great risk - this effort of
his to keep his place. His one mistake - this association with
Morrison - had been such an unparalleled stroke of bad luck. He
was rid of the fellow now. For the future there should be no more
partners. He had his life to live. It was not reasonable that he
should allow himself to be dragged down into the mire by such a
creature. He found an empty taxicab at the corner of Queen Victoria
Street, and hailed it.

"Whitehall Court," he told the driver.