Wherefore the whole of his worldly resources, if we except the courage and the smile, went into the whirlpool and were swallowed up. Richard let the curtain fall across the window and crossed to the mantelpiece where he touched the bell. It occurred to him that there was a certain luxury in ringing bells--it was one of many comforts of civilisation that would pass out of his reach. No one answered the bell so he rang it again and was quite dispirited to hear footsteps ascending the stairs. If his connection with bells was to cease it would have been pleasant to have rung it a few more times. It is an awful thing to contemplate that you have rung a bell for the last time. One can get very sentimental over a thing like that. Dear jolly old bells, what an influence they have upon life. How bravely they whirr at the arrival of a dear expected--how madly they riot to the tune Wedding--how sadly they toll when the last of us is borne away. Mrs. Walton, the landlady, came into the room and said "Yes." "I am going now," said Richard. "We shall be sorry to lose you." "And I to go. Many thanks, Mrs. Walton." "And what is your destination, sir?" "I have my eye on a bench facing Green Park," he replied. "It is a favourite locality for the impecunious philosopher. In other words I don't know where I'm going but I have a pretty solid conviction that one of these days I shall get there. There are two empty trunks in my bedroom which I should be glad if you would accept." Mrs. Walton shook her head. "You could raise a bit of money on them," she suggested. "Maybe," said Richard, "but I don't want to. There are only two kinds of money that are any use. Regular money or lots of money--a little money is no good to anyone and is better spent. By midnight tonight I hope to find myself with none at all." "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Walton. "That," replied Richard, "is precisely what I am relying upon. And I could not wish to start on my adventures under a happier ensign. Goodbye." And to the amazement of the lady he hissed her very soundly and clattered down the stairs. At the tobacconist he settled the last of his small accounts, purchased a hundred cigarettes and hailed a taxi. "The Berkeley Grill Room," he said. They were a little surprised at the informality of his attire, but there is something in the bearing of a restaurant habitue that would procure him the best the establishment can afford even though he appeared in a bathing suit. "Stick me in a corner somewhere," he said, "I have no evening clothes." "Monsieur has not had time to dress." "I repeat I have no evening clothes, on the other hand I've a deuce of a good appetite. A brandy cocktail and the book of words, please." They were supplied.