“I was involved in Paramore’s case. I’ve been to the bottom of this thing, I tell you. Paramore overflowed--emptied himself like a well; and at the end there was absolutely nothing left in his mind; it was void, up to the black brim. Then he died--quite vacuous. He had simply poured out his inner life around me. I was left alone in Dakar, swimming in the infernal pool of Paramore’s cerebrations. You can’t, on the banks of the Sénégal, refer a man to his solicitors. If Paramore had been a Catholic, I could have turned his case over to the Bishop. But bishops had nothing to do with Paramore. And that’s where you come in.” “Oh, I come in, do I?” I asked a little fearfully. No one wants to come in where Hoyting leaves off. “Of course. Why else did I make an appointment with you? You’ll take this packet when you leave. You don’t suppose I’m going to London!” “I didn’t know Paramore.” “No; but I did. And when I’ve told you, you’ll see. I don’t take a trip like this for nothing. I hate the very smell of the asphalt.” “Go on.” It’s what one always says to Hoyting. “I can’t tell it coherently--though I can tell it, I suppose, more coherently than he did. In the first place, what do you know about him?” The question sent a flood of dingy reminiscence welling slowly and muddily up through my consciousness. I thought for a moment. What, after all, was there to tell about Paramore except that he had lied, and that in the end he had been discredited as lavishly as for a time he had been believed? For any one else I might have made a sprightly little story out of the elliptical narrative of the newspapers; but no one that I know of has ever tried to be a _raconteur_ for Hoyting. He has use only for the raw material; art disgusts him. I gave him as rapid a _précis_ as I could, suppressing all instinct to embroider it. When I had finished: “He’s completely discredited, then?” I waved my hands. “My dear Hoyting, no one would take Paramore’s word about the manners and customs of his own household.” “It’s a pity,” said Hoyting simply. “It makes it harder for you.” “I’ve nothing to do with Paramore. If there’s one thing that interests me less than his disaster, it’s his rehabilitation.” I didn’t mean to be flippant, but Hoyting’s ominousness invited it. “Oh, rehabilitation--no; I dare say, between us, we couldn’t manage that. I merely want to get the truth off my hands.” Hoyting lighted another cigarette. The atmosphere of my room was already densely blue, and I opened the window. His hand shot up. “Shut that, please. I can’t be interrupted by all those savage noises. God! for a breath of sea air!” I sat down and faced him. After all, the man has never lived who could stage-manage Hoyting. “Did you ever meet the Australian?” he asked. “Whitaker? No.” “A pretty bad lot, I gather.” “Do you mean that he lied?” “Oh, no. From what Paramore said, I should think that was just the one thing he didn’t do.”