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At the end of the day M. Bredin paid him his eighteen shillings with a grunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a masterless man.

He went to his attic and sat down on the bed. Propped up against the wall was the picture. He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stared dully before him.

Then thoughts came to him with a rush, leaping and dancing in his mind like imps in Hades. He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed to be watching himself from a great distance.

This was the end. The little imps danced and leaped; and then one separated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than, the rest, to pirouette more energetically. He rose. His mind was made up. He would kill himself.

He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as he walked. He would kill himself, but how?

His preoccupation was so great that an automobile, rounding a corner, missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shouted angrily at him as he leapt back.

Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.

‘Pig!’ he shouted. ‘Assassin! Scoundrel! Villain! Would you kill me? I will take your number, rascal. I will inform the police. Villain!’

A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned to him, full of his wrongs.

‘Officer,’ he cried, ‘I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs! They are reckless. They drive so recklessly. Hence the great number of accidents.’

‘Awful!’ said the policeman. ‘Pass along, sonny.’

Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs–And then an idea came to him. He had found a way.

* * * * *

It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was dark and there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in the shadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came the distant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazing eyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey.

He ran out into the road with a shout.

It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulate farewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable to the driver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cry of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of locked wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard from where he stood.

‘What the deuce–‘ said a cool voice from behind the lights.

Paul struck his chest and folded his arms.

‘I am here,’ he cried. ‘Destroy me!’

‘Let George do it,’ said the voice, in a marked American accent. ‘I never murder on a Friday; it’s unlucky. If it’s not a rude question, which asylum are you from? Halloa!’

The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul’s nerves had finally given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing.

The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young man with a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul.

‘Quit that,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not true. And if it is, there’s always hope. Cut it out. What’s the matter? All in?’

Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. The cold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling of desolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his troubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an occasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listened attentively.

‘So you can’t sell your picture, and you’ve lost your job, and your girl has shaken you?’ he said. ‘Pretty bad, but still you’ve no call to go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel, and tomorrow we’ll see if we can’t fix up something.’