s over
the forests, forming bright hieroglyphics in the middle heavens,
showering over the dark harbour into the sea. Scorrier walked slowly. A
weight seemed lifted from his mind, so entangled had he become in that
uncanny silence. At last Pippin had broken through the spell. To get
that, letter sent would be the laying of a phantom, the rehabilitation of
commonsense. Now that this silence was in the throes of being broken, he
felt curiously tender towards Pippin, without the hero-worship of old
days, but with a queer protective feeling. After all, he was different
from other men. In spite of his feverish, tenacious energy, in spite of
his ironic humour, there was something of the woman in him! And as for
this silence, this horror of control--all geniuses had "bees in their
bonnets," and Pippin was a genius in his way!

He looked back at the town. Brilliantly lighted it had a thriving
air-difficult to believe of the place he remembered ten years back; the
sounds of drinking, gambling, laughter, and dancing floated to his ears.
'Quite a city!' he thought.

With this queer elation on him he walked slowly back along the street,
forgetting that he was simply an oldish mining expert, with a look of
shabbiness, such as clings to men who are always travelling, as if their
"nap" were for ever being rubbed off. And he thought of Pippin, creator
of this glory.

He had passed the boundaries of the town, and had entered the forest. A
feeling of discouragement instantly beset him. The scents and silence,
after the festive cries and odours of the town, were undefinably
oppressive. Notwithstanding, he walked a long time, saying to himself
that he would give the letter every chance. At last, when he thought
that Pippin must have finished, he went back to the house.

Pippin had finished. His forehead rested on the table, his arms hung at
his sides; he was stone-dead! His face wore a smile, and by his side lay
an empty laudanum bottle.

The letter, closely, beautifully written, lay before him. It was a fine
document, clear, masterly, detailed, nothing slurred, nothing concealed,
nothing omitted; a complete review of the company's position; it ended
with the words: "Your humble servant, RICHARD PIPPIN."

Scorrier took possession of it. He dimly understood that with those last
words a wire had snapped. The border-line had been overpassed; the point
reached where that sense of proportion, which alone makes life possi