course, but I do believe that women hold too big a place in our lives.
I am one of the poor fools who goes to the wall to gratify the vanity
of one of them."

The journalist muttered a word under his breath which he would have
been very sorry to have seen in the pages of his paper. Julien had
moved to the open window. There had been a little break in his voice.
No one knew better than Kendricks that a very brilliant career was
broken.

"I think you're wise to go away for a time, Julien," he decided. "Look
here, it's six o'clock now. I have a taxicab waiting downstairs. Come
round to my rotten little restaurant in Soho and dine with me. Your
fellow can meet us at Charing-Cross with your things. You won't see a
soul you know where I'm going to take you."

Julien turned slowly away from the window. He was looking for the last
time from those rooms at the London which he had loved. The setting sun
had caught the dome of St. Paul's, was flashing from the dark, placid
water of the Thames. The roar of the great city was passing from
eastwards to westwards.

"You're a good chap, Kendricks," he declared. "I'll come along, with
pleasure. I shall have enough solitude later on. But listen, before we
go--listen, David, to a speech after your own heart."

Julien stood quite still for a moment. His pale face seemed suddenly
whiter, his eyes were full of fire.

"David," he said, "if ever the time comes in the future when I find