"Oh! Would you? Filthy brute! If I'm good enough for one thing I'm good enough for another. Do you hear that, Logan? He would have turned me out!" "You leave Kühler alone," said Logan. "You'll never understand him, if you try for a thousand years." "Turned me out?" muttered Oliver. "Heuh! I like that. He'd turn me out and get another girl in! I'll not have any of those tricks from you, Logan." "You can talk about them when I begin them," he replied. She turned from Mendel to Thompson and soon had him soft in her snares. "She would like to do that with me," thought Mendel, "and she hates me because she knows she cannot." * * * * * They returned to Paris by bus all sleepy and a little drunk. Oliver leaned her head on Logan's shoulder and dozed, smiling to herself, while Thompson, sitting by her side, fingered her sleeve. They were carried far beyond the point where they should have descended, and finding themselves on the boulevards, they woke up to the liveliness of the Parisian night, and Oliver refused to go home. Thompson suggested the cabarets, and they went from one dreary vicious hole to another until they came on one where a party of Americans were doing in Paris as the Parisians do. They had brought on a number of _cocottes_ from the Bal Tabarin, and were drinking, shouting, dancing. Thompson led Oliver into the mêlée, and soon she was drinking, shouting, dancing with the rest. Mendel was horrified and disgusted. There was no zest in the riot. It was a piece of deliberate, cold-blooded bestialization. He trembled with rage, and turned to Logan, who was sitting with a sickly smile on his face:-- "You ought not to let her," he cried--almost moaned. "If she were my woman I would not let her. I would kill any man who laid hands on her like that. She is not a prostitute. I would not let my woman be a prostitute." But Logan did not move. He sat with his sickly smile on his face. He was drunk and could not move. Unable to bear the scene any longer, Mendel rushed away, jumped into a taxi, and drove back to the hotel, swearing that he would go back to London the next day. He would write and tell Logan that he must get rid of Oliver or no longer be his friend. She was a poisonous drab. She would be the ruin of his friend. An hour or two later Logan came back. He was very white, and his hair was dank, and there was a cold sweat on his face. "My God!" he said, "Kühler! Are you awake? I don't know where she is. I went to sleep. I was so tired, and there was such a row with those blasted Americans. I went to sleep and awoke to find a nigger shaking me and the place empty. . . . Where does Thompson live? Do you know?" "Off the Boulevard Raspail. I went there to look at his rubbishy pictures. I think I could find the way. Are you going to kill him?" "I want to find her," said Logan. "I must find her. It is killing me to think of her lost in Paris. I must find her. I can't sleep without her. I must find her."