Outside he fought it, the roar of dripping London in his ears. A cab drove up to the reception-canopy, and her father, Jerry Cardinegh, stepped out--incredibly shrunken, altered, and uncertain of step. Far different had he left London for India less than a year before, a hard, weathered, full-blooded man. Routledge hungered now for his friend of friends, but he did not call. In the Rubicon Buffet, across the Square, the _Review’s_ cheque was handed him presently by a messenger. The outcast signed the receipt, and sat down dazedly, forgetting to drink. An hour later, Burling-Forster entered the buffet with some friends from the Armory. The artilleryman saw Routledge at a far table and backed out. “We will go on,” said he. “I perceive that this is no place for us.” The manager’s quick eye had seen Burling-Forster’s glance rest upon the solitary figure at the distant table, and he stared doubtfully now at Routledge. The latter rose and approached him. “Forgive me,” he said, quitting the place. “Not for fortunes would I impair the popularity of your excellent buffet.” London had changed in an hour; it was pitiless, alien. Yet he could laugh at London. The thought that made him writhe had to do with the gorgeous woman who had cast herself into the débris of his fortunes--the woman who had meant so much to him in the silences of service.... He moved about in the fog; passed the _Review_ office, glanced up at the fourth floor, the blazing lights just a pale glimmer now. Friends were there, putting their best of brain and hand into the maw of the morning paper. The cutting sentences of Dartmore returned, and he did not go upstairs. In the little press-club around the corner, the day men were in festival. Routledge winced--and passed by. There was time still to catch a night-train for Paris, but he couldn’t let the mystery beat him, not even for the glisten of Paris--not for New Jerusalem! He would wait and ask no questions. A broad, low building very lavish with its music, lights, and laughter appeared at length upon the right of way. Routledge inquired of a policeman what was going on within. “It’s the cab-drivers’ annual ’op, sir,” the officer said. “May one enter who is not a cab-driver at present?” Routledge asked. “’Avin’ the price, sir.” All things to all men, Routledge fell gladly into the gathering, buying seas of beer and continents of cake. Within a half-hour he had telephoned to Rupley’s for a ten-story confection, and presently many couples, shining-faced, were preening and pirouetting for the possession of it. Had he been the King’s groom, he could not have mounted higher in the estimate of the guests. His heart grew warm with the fun. It was after midnight when the new social stratum tumbled about his ears. The hard-headed little master of ceremonies approached, very white and sorrowful: