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Lightbody, who had had time to be ashamed of the emotion that he, as a man, had shown to another of his sex, rose and said with dignity: "I shall have avenged my honor." De Gollyer, understanding at once that the battle had been won, took up in an easy running attack his battery of words. "By publishing your dishonor to Europe, Africa, Asia? That's logic, isn't it?
The necessity having ceased, he crossed his arms, quite calm, laughing a low, scornful laugh. "My dear boy," said De Gollyer, to relieve the tension, "as a matter of fact, that's the way you're all caught." "I believe it," said Lightbody curtly. He had now an instinctive desire to insult the whole female sex. "I know a bachelor knows. The things I have seen and the things I have heard.
The frenzy of his rage passed, but to make his resolution doubly impressive, he extended his arm and said slowly: "But remember, my mind is made up. I shall not budge. I shall shoot them down like dogs! You see I say quietly like dogs!" "My dear old pal," said De Gollyer with a well-bred shrug of his shoulders, "you'll do nothing of the sort. We are men of the world, my boy, men of the world.
Lightbody, as delirious as a young girl at the thought of her first ball, cried: "Paris, Vienna, Morocco two years around the world!" "On my honor!" Rapidly Lightbody, impatient for the celebration, put De Gollyer into his coat and armed him with his cane. "In half an hour, Jim. Get Budd, get Reggie Longworth, and, I say, get that little reprobate of a Smithy, will you?" "Yes, by George."
"Out of all of which," said De Gollyer, "the interesting thing is that Rankin has supplied the reason why the supply of detective fiction is inexhaustible. It does all come down to the simplest terms. Seven possibilities, one answer. It is a formula, ludicrously simple, mechanical, and yet we will always pursue it to the end.
"By Jove!" said De Gollyer, suddenly enlightened, and through his mind flashed the thought "There's been an accident something fatal. Tough devilish tough." He cast a furtive glance toward the bedrooms and then an alarmed one toward his friend, standing in the embrasure of the windows, pressing his forehead against the panes.
He excused himself and went along the porch, nodding from table to table. "Curious chap," said De Gollyer musingly. "Extraordinary." The word was like a murmur in the group of four, who continued watching Peters' trim disappearing figure in silence, without looking at one another with a certain ill ease.
"By way of Paris?" questioned De Gollyer, who likewise gained a dozen years of youthfulness. "Certainly by way of Paris." "With a dash of Vienna?" "Run it off the map!" "Good old Jack! You're coming back, my boy, you're coming strong!" "Am I? Just watch!" Dancing over to the desk, he seized a dozen heavy books: "'Evolution and Psychology, 'Burning Questions! 'Woman's Position in Tasmania! Aha!"
At this Lightbody, watching the tracing finger, said with some irritation, "No, no, down the coast first." "I beg your pardon," said De Gollyer; "to Fez, my dear fellow." "My dear boy, I know! Down the coast to Rabat." "Ah, now, you're sure? I think " "And I know," said Lightbody, raising his voice and assuming possession of the atlas, which he struck energetically with the back of his hand.
"This little ABC introduction," said Quinny, pleasantly, "is necessary to understand the relation a woman plays to the artist. It is not the woman he seeks, but the hypnotic influence which the woman can exert on his faculties if she is able to inspire him with a passion." "Precisely why he marries," said De Gollyer.
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