remind him of her visit but a bunch of violets which seemed to have
fallen from her muff, and the faint perfume from them. He took them up,
smelt them for a moment, and flung them lightly into the hearth. Then
he touched his bell.

"My hat, stick and gloves, Richards," he ordered. "Bring my things to
Charing-Cross at half-past eight. Have them registered only to
Boulogne. You understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," the man replied.

Julien glanced once more around his sitting-room. The little bunch of
violets was smouldering upon the hearth. In a sense they seemed to him
symbolical.

"Kendricks is right," he muttered. "It is the women who play the devil
with our lives!"




CHAPTER V


A SENTIMENTAL EPISODE


Kendricks was waiting below in the taxicab, leaning back in the corner
with his feet upon the opposite seat, and smoking his very disreputable
pipe with an air of serene content.