Trenchard I found to be a black-haired, pleasant-voiced, very much alive fellow of a little under thirty. His rank, I believe, had been that of major, and even the atrocious crippling he had received at La Bassée did not destroy his look of perfect efficiency. He was just able to start up a car, and cars were his livelihood and he lived in them. I introduced myself, and he hobbled cheerfully about among his cups and bread-and-butter and methylated spirits. "So," I concluded my introduction of myself, "as I'm settling up a few matters for him I wanted to know how you stood." "Oh, everything's perfectly all right as far as I'm concerned," he laughed, filling the teapot. "Place left like a new pin, Bradburys in an envelope, and a quite unnecessary letter of thanks for what he calls my kindness. I was only too glad to have somebody in the place." "Do you know what day he left?" "Let me see. To-day's the ninth. He left on Monday, the fifth." (Note: he had cleared out of Trenchard's place the day after I had seen him and Julia off at Haslemere Station.) "He didn't say where he was going?" He gave me a quick glance. "I say, this _is_ all right, isn't it?" Then, laughing as I smiled, "Sorry, but one has to be careful, you know. No, he didn't say. Here's his note if you care to read it. I don't even know what to do with letters if any come for him." Already I guessed that it would be useless to put my question; but I asked it none the less. "You didn't _see_ him before he left, then?" "No. He simply left that note. It's dated the evening of the fourth, and it says he's off to-morrow.... By the way, what _am_ I to do about letters?" There wouldn't be any letters. Of that I was sure. But I gave him my address, wound up a pleasant chat rather quickly, and took my leave. And now for that diary that, instead of helping me, had proved the greatest stumbling-block of all. I had had not a moment's scruple in reading every word of it, in trying to disentangle every diagram and equation it contained. Any question of ordinary decorum had long since passed out of the relation that existed between him, Julia, and myself. And let me repeat once more that a man who has questioned the universe until he has asked one question too many involves in his own fatality all who have to endure the contact of him. His state is apocalyptic, his existence merely spatial, without zenith of virtue or nadir of disgrace. If my roof had not been abused, neither did I violate his diary. I merely read it without a qualm.