he War Office and stood on the steps
for some moments watching a rivulet surging along the edge of the
pavement.... "I am sorry, Mario, but it was mercifully swift, and his
end was glorious. Ireland has disappointed some of us, but fellows like
Courtier and those who went with him make one think...."

Paul walked out into the lashing rain, going in the direction of Charing
Cross. He was thinking of another storm which had struck swiftly out of
a fair sky, of the aisles of the hills, and of one that he had met
there. To-day Jules Thessaly was leaving England. Don was dead. Some who
knew Paul and who saw him driving on through the downpour as if
fury-ridden or sped by some great urgency, wondered and later
remembered. But to him London was empty, and heedless of the curiosity
of men and the tumult of the elements he pressed on. Nothing penetrated
to his consciousness save the eternal repetition of his own name and the
name of his book. Evidences of his influence seemed to leer at him from
window and hoarding. A performance of the French symphony, _Dawn_, was
advertised to take place at the Queen's Hall, and he found one bill
announcing an exhibition of pictures by an ultra-modern
Belgian--pictures which their painter declared to be "illustrations" of
_The Gates_. And in his pocket were the papers deposited with Nevin to
be given to Paul only in the event of Don's death. Paul had read them,
and whilst he longed with a passionate longing to go to Flamby, he knew
that to-day he dared not trust himself within sight of the clear grey
eyes, of the alluring lips, within touch of the red-brown hair. But he
recognised that he must go ultimately, and so he drove on through the
storm and right and left of him were traces of his mark upon the world.

* * * * *

Tropical heat prevailed throughout the following day and Paul spent the
morning pacing up and down his study. Yvonne was in Brighton. Paul long
since had realised that the sympathy between them was imperfect, but
always he had counted upon re-establishing the old complete comradeship
when his great task should be at last concluded. This morning he had
learned the truth, that Yvonne was with Orlando James, but his brain was
still too numb fully to appreciate it. Towards noon he sat down at his
writing-table and began to read with close attention the typed pages of
_The Key_. Bassett was becoming anxious and had rung up more than once
during the