I began to respect the young man’s wisdom.

“So you believe it to be a woman?”

“Yes.  The wind blows from one point at a time.  There are four points to the vane of destiny; there is ambition for glory, ambition for power, ambition for wealth, and ambition for love.  In Hillars’s case, since the wind does not blow from the first three, it must necessarily blow from the fourth.  You know him better than I do; so you must certainly know that Hillars is not a man to drink because glory or power or wealth refused to visit him.”

“You are a very discerning young man,” said I, whereat he laughed.  “Did he get my cable?”

“No.  I thought that it was some order from headquarters and opened it myself.  I put it in his desk.  I spoke to him, but he was too drunk to pay any heed to what I said.  Well, I must be going.  I am getting out a symposium of editorials from the morning papers on the possibility of a Franco-Russian alliance.  It must be at the cable office in half an hour.  If you are going to wait, you’ll find the Berlin and Paris files in the next room.  I’ll see you later,” and he departed.

It was five of the clock.  The Strand was choked.  Here and there I saw the color of martial attire.  Save for this, and that the buildings were low and solid, and that most of the people walked slower, I might have been looking down upon Broadway for all the change of place I saw.  There is not much difference between New York and London, except in the matter of locomotion.  The American gets around with more rapidity than does his English cousin, but in the long run he accomplishes no more.  It is only when one steps onto the Continent that the real difference in the human races is discerned.  Strange as this may seem, it is not distinguishable in a cosmopolitan city.  My eyes were greeted with the same huge wearisome signs of the merchants; the same sad-eyed “sandwich men;” the same newsboys yelling and scampering back and forth; the same rumble of the omnibuses, the roar of the drays, and the rattle of the cabs.  I was not much interested in all I saw.  Suddenly my roving eyes rested upon a familiar face.  It was Hillars, and he was pushing rapidly across the street.  Any one would have instantly marked him for an American by the nervous stride, the impatience at being obstructed.  I went into the fire-room, intending to give him a little surprise.  I did not have long to wait.  The door to the main office opened and he came in, singing a snatch from a drinking song we used to sing at college.  The rich baritone that had once made the old glee club famous was a bit husky and throaty.  I heard him unlock his desk and roll back the lid.  There was a quiet for a moment.

“Dick!” he called.  “Hi, Dick!  Well, I’m hanged!”

Evidently he had discovered my cable.

“Dick isn’t in,” said I, crossing the threshold.

In a moment our hands were welded together, and we were gazing into each other’s eyes.