murmured, half to himself. "By the bye, there's no doubt about the
letter, I suppose?"

"None in the world," Julien replied.

"There's nothing that the Press can do to set you right?"

"Great heavens, no!" Julien declared. "No one can help me. I've no one
to blame but myself. I wrote the letter--there the matter ends."

"And she passed it on to that shocking little bounder of a husband of
hers! What a creature! Did it ever occur to you that it was a plot?"

Julien shrugged his shoulders.

"It makes so little difference."

"You were in Carraby's way," Kendricks continued, producing a pipe from
his pocket and leisurely filling it. "There was no getting past you and
you were a young man. It's a dirty business."

"If you don't mind," Julien said coldly, "we won't discuss it any
further. So far as I am concerned, the whole matter is at an end. I was
compelled to take part in to-day's mummery. I hated it--that they all
knew. I suppose it's foolish to mind such things, David," he went on
bitterly, taking up a cigarette and throwing himself into a chair, "but
a year ago--it was just after I came back from Berlin and you may
remember it was the fancy of the people to believe that I had saved the
country from war--they cheered me all the way from Whitehall to the
Mansion House. To-day there was only a dull murmur of voices--a sort of