The door into the girl’s room remained locked....
And it was so found in the early morning when the police broke into the place, led by the curious concierge, and roused the sleeping girl.
CHAPTER LXXXII
Wherein Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre struts airily towards the Goal of Freedom
Mr. Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre climbed the stairs to his rooms at midnight; and all that night he wrote.
When the grey of the dawn put out his lamp’s light, that wondrous misspending energy of his had finished the essay that brought him such an uproar of notoriety and made him for awhile again the pet of London drawing-rooms.
It was a master-stroke.
It accounted æsthetically, the Nietzschian note, for his past infamies; it gave the philosophic standpoint to the latest and shabbiest infamy he was about to commit—for the first bound copy of his new book lay upon the table, fresh from the publisher. He smiled as he thought of the green eyes of Gabrielle Solignac reading this book, reclining in her catlike grace amongst her little smiling Eastern gods.