"What's the good! Better not." He tore them up also. Another--from his
uncle. It was brief:

You've made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It's in all the papers to-
day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I'll
probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the
site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can
pose with you. I'll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a
British M.P.--that's a tough pill for Clapham!

Gaston's foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the
letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal,
Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it was
there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation.
Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all
unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand:

There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called
Zoug-Zoug.

He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot:
the worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself?

Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne.

Thousands of men did the same--did it in cold blood, without one honest
feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could not
help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of the
equation. On his father's side, bringing down the mad record from