spoke, a
hollow rumble, echoing in the court-yard, marked the exit of a carriage
under the archway into the Rue Lafayette. There had been only one
carriage in attendance in the court-yard--that in which Colville had
left Barebone.

"Here, in this cupboard," repeated Turner to unheeding ears. For Dormer
Colville was already hurrying across the room toward the other window
that looked out into the Rue Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, with
a high entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was not
possible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes.

Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watch
Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash.

"Anything the matter?" inquired the banker, placidly. "Lost a dog?"

But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaning
out. The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made. It was
manifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late.
After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of the
room and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare writing-table.

He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, to
face his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic,
ablaze for once with rage.

"Damn you!" he cried. "Damn you!"

And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office.

Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, in
the middle of the room. He heard the outer door close with considerable
emphasis. Then he sat down again, his eyebrows raised high on his round
forehead, and gazed sadly at the date-card.

* * *

Colville had left Loo Barebone seated in the hired carriage in a frame
of mind far from satisfactory. A sea-faring life, more than any other,
teaches a man quickness in action. A hundred times a day the sailor
needs to execute, with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that which
knowledge tells him to be the imminent necessity of the moment. At sea,
life is so far simpler than in towns that there are only two ways: the
right and the wrong. In the devious paths of a pavement-ridden man there
are a hundred byways: there is the long, long lane of many turnings
called Compromise.

Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the Hotel Gemosac,
in the Ruelle St. Jacob, and had wandered there ever since. Capt