Back in London, Bobby's condition of misery, so far from improving,
became worse. His life, aimless enough ever since the War, seemed now
more aimless than ever. Every man he knew had something to do; he alone
was objectless and workless. More profoundly than ever he realized all
that Madame de Corantin had meant to him. Her disappearance had made his
life a blank. Had there been some glimmer of hope, however slight, of
penetrating the mystery, had there been the faintest clue to her present
whereabouts, he would have thrown himself heart and soul into the
endeavour to trace her, but he had absolutely nothing to go upon.

Weary and desolate, he haunted restaurants and hotels, in the vague
hope that chance might some day yield him a glimpse of her, as a gambler
clings to a faint prospect of redeeming his fortunes through some
wonderful and unexpected revulsion of luck. But the days passed without
the slightest encouragement, and his misery turned almost to despair.

At last, at his wits' end to know what to do with himself, he besought
a boon companion of his night life to come to his rescue. To this one war
had brought opportunity. His name was Bertram Trent. He had lived all
sorts of lives, had been married and divorced, and had made his
appearance more than once in the Bankruptcy Court, but he had knocked
about the world and seen service.

Offering himself at the beginning of the War, he had taken part in the
Great Retreat and had been wounded. On his recovery he had been given the
command of a battalion, and at Bobby's earnest entreaty he promised him a
commission, provided he could get it confirmed at the War Office. This
saved Bobby. He lost no time in putting in his application, and, awaiting
the Gazette, he occupied himself in ordering his kit and in getting