Duncombe
greeted him with a little expression of wonder.
"Spencer!" he exclaimed. "Were you waiting to see me?"
The journalist nodded. He was not in evening dress, and he too had the
appearance of a man who has received something of a shock.
"Yes. The cafe is closed, I suppose. Let us go down into the smoke-room.
I want to talk to you."
Duncombe led the way. They found two easy-chairs, and despatched a
waiter for whiskies and soda. Then Spencer turned to his friend.
"Have you met," he asked, "with any success?"
"None!" Duncombe answered gloomily.
"I have something to tell you," Spencer continued. "No, it is not good
news," he added hastily. "It is more a personal matter. It is of
something which has happened to myself."
Duncombe sighed.
"Go on!" he said.
"For twenty-two and a half years," Spencer said, "I have lived in Paris
as the correspondent to various English journals. I have made many
friends, and it has been considered amongst all my fellow journalists
that I had the ear of more influential people in politics and society
here than any other writer. To-day I have resigned my position!"
Duncombe managed to summon up enough interest to be surprised.
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