and laborious handwriting:  H. Walter, Esqre.  Undoubtedly the very last letter the old butler had posted before his illness, and in answer clearly to one from “Master Arthur” instructing him to address in the future:  “Care of Messrs. W. Dunster and Co.”  Renouard made as if to open the envelope, but paused, and, instead, tore the letter deliberately in two, in four, in eight.  With his hand full of pieces of paper he returned on deck and scattered them overboard on the dark water, in which they vanished instantly.

He did it slowly, without hesitation or remorse.  H. Walter, Esqre, in Malata.  The innocent Arthur—­What was his name?  The man sought for by that woman who as she went by seemed to draw all the passion of the earth to her, without effort, not deigning to notice, naturally, as other women breathed the air.  But Renouard was no longer jealous of her very existence.  Whatever its meaning it was not for that man he had picked up casually on obscure impulse, to get rid of the tiresome expostulations of a so-called friend; a man of whom he really knew nothing—­and now a dead man.  In Malata.  Oh, yes!  He was there secure enough, untroubled in his grave.  In Malata.  To bury him was the last service Renouard had rendered to his assistant before leaving the island on this trip to town.

Like many men ready enough for arduous enterprises Renouard was inclined to evade the small complications of existence.  This trait of his character was composed of a little indolence, some disdain, and a shrinking from contests with certain forms of vulgarity—­like a man who would face a lion and go out of his way to avoid a toad.  His intercourse with the meddlesome journalist was that merely outward intimacy without sympathy some young men get drawn into easily.  It had amused him rather to keep that “friend” in the dark about the fate of his assistant.  Renouard had never needed other company than his own, for there was in him something of the sensitiveness of a dreamer who is easily jarred.  He had said to himself that the all-knowing one would only preach again about the evils of solitude and worry his head off in favour of some forlornly useless protege of his.  Also the inquisitiveness of the Editor had irritated him and had closed his lips in sheer disgust.

And now he contemplated the noose of consequences drawing tight around him.

It was the memory of that diplomatic reticence which on the terrace had stiffled his first cry which would have told them all that the man sought for was not to be met on earth any more.  He shrank from the absurdity of hearing the all-knowing one, and not very sober at that, turning on him with righteous reproaches —

“You never told me.  You gave me to understand that your assistant was alive, and now you say he’s dead.  Which is it?  Were you lying then or are you lying now?” No! the thought of such a scene was not to be borne.  He had sat down appalled, thinking:  “What shall I do now?”