“They had no intention of doing anything desperate,” she said, “until this morning. If he had remained in London, they might have gone on indefinitely. The prospect of endless months in France set the whole thing ablaze. . . . When I put the moral side before him, he retorted with a _tu quoque_.” “What did he mean?” “That I was ready, at his age, to run away with a married man.” “Were you?” he asked. “I suppose so,” she replied with a weary little smile. “That was an entirely different affair.” “Not from the moral point of view.” “Oh, damn morals,” said he. She laughed in spite of her distress. It was so characteristic of the man. If anything got in his way, he just damned it, and regarded it as non-existent. He moved restlessly about; then, catching sight of his discarded coat and waistcoat, plunged savagely into them, as though he were going in pursuit of the erring pair. “What are you going to do?” she asked. “I don’t know,” he said, abandoning half-way the furious buttoning of his waistcoat. “That’s the devil of it, there’s nothing to be done.” At that moment Quong Ho discreetly appeared at the door. “Will you have particular need of my services for the next hour?” “Yes, of course I shall. Look there!” Baltazar flung a hand towards the paper-strewn table. “We go to press this evening.” Quong Ho consulted his watch. “I am sorry then, for I don’t know how I shall proceed. I promised Captain Godfrey to take his bag to the railway station at five o’clock.” Smiles wreathed Baltazar’s face of annoyance, and he exchanged a quick glance with Marcelle. “What railway station?” “Waterloo.” “I thought he had taken his kit with him in the car.” “He explained, sir, when he called me into the hall before he left, that he couldn’t garage the car at Waterloo station.” “I see,” said Baltazar. “Therefore I am to seek it in his bedroom and convey it by taxi to Waterloo.” Baltazar nodded approvingly, and the humorous light appeared in his eyes which Quong Ho could never interpret. “It’s very lucky you’ve told me, Quong Ho. I want particularly to say a word or two to Godfrey before he leaves London. I’ll take his bag. You get on with the work. Perhaps you’ll send somebody out for a taxi.” “I’ll fetch one myself,” said Quong Ho, and bowing as usual politely to Marcelle, left the room. Baltazar clutched her arms with both hands and lifted her from her seat and, laughing exultantly, kissed her a hearty, unintelligible kiss—the first for twenty years—leaving her utterly bewildered. “The Lord has delivered them into my hands!” he cried. “The stars in their courses fight for the House of Baltazar.” “What in the world are you going to do?” she asked. “Play hell,” said he.