” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. I don’t. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. And then they talked of Anarchism and Socialism, and whether the former was the exact opposite of the latter or only a higher form. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam.
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