Hegisippe Cruchot laughed and twirled his little brows mustache.

“If you think so much of it,” said he, “you can acquit your debt in full by offering me another absinthe to drink the health of the three.”

“Why, of course,” said Septimus.

Hegisippe, who was sitting next the door, twisted his head round and shouted his order to those within.  It was a very modest little cafe; in fact it was not a cafe at all, but a Marchand des vins with a zinc counter inside, and a couple of iron tables outside on the pavement to convey the air of a terrasse.  Septimus, with his genius for the inharmonious, drank tea; not as the elegant nowadays drink at Colombin’s or Rumpelmayer’s, but a dirty, gray liquid served with rum, according to the old French fashion, before five-o’cloquer became a verb in the language.  When people ask for tea at a Marchand des vins, the teapot has to be hunted up from goodness knows where; and as for the tea...!  Septimus, however, sipped the decoction of the dust of ages with his usual placidity.  He had poured himself out a second cup and was emptying into it the remainder of the carafe of rum, so as to be ready for the toast as soon as Hegisippe had prepared his absinthe, when a familiar voice behind him caused him to start and drop the carafe itself into the teacup.

“Well, I’m blessed!” said the voice.

It was Clem Sypher, large, commanding, pink, and smiling.  The sight of Septimus hobnobbing with a Zouave outside a humble wine merchant’s had drawn from him the exclamation of surprise.  Septimus jumped to his feet.

“My dear fellow, how glad I am to see you.  Won’t you sit down and join us?  Have a drink.”

Sypher took off his gray Homburg hat for a moment, and wiped a damp forehead.

“Whew!  How anybody can stay in Paris this weather unless they are obliged to is a mystery.”

“Why do you stay?” asked Septimus.

“I’m not staying.  I’m passing through on my way to Switzerland to look after the Cure there.  But I thought I’d look you up.  I was on my way to you.  I was in Nunsmere last week and took Wiggleswick by the throat and choked your address out of him.  The Hotel Godet.  It’s somewhere about here, isn’t it?”

“Over there,” said Septimus, with a wave of the hand.  He brought a chair from the other table.  “Do sit down.”

Sypher obeyed.  “How’s the wife?”

“The ­what?” asked Septimus.

“The wife ­Mrs. Dix.”

“Oh, very well, thank you,” he said hurriedly.  “Let me introduce you to my good friend Monsieur Hegisippe Cruchot of the Zouaves ­Monsieur Cruchot ­Monsieur Clem Sypher.”

Hegisippe saluted and declared his enchantment according to the manners of his country.  Sypher raised his hat politely.

“Of Sypher’s Cure ­Friend of Humanity.  Don’t forget that,” he said laughingly in French.

“Qu’est ce que c’est que ca?” asked Hegisippe, turning to Septimus.  Septimus explained.

“Ah-h!” cried Hegisippe, open-mouthed, the light of recognition in his eyes. “La Cure Sypher!” He made it rhyme with “prayer.”  “But I know that well.  And it is Monsieur who fabricates ce machin-la?”

“Yes; the Friend of Humanity.  What have you used it for?”

“For my heels when they had blisters after a long day’s march.”

The effect of these words on Sypher was electrical.  He brought both hands down on the table, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Septimus.

“Good heavens!” he cried, changing color, “it never occurred to me.”

“What?”

“Why ­blistered heels ­marching.  Don’t you see?  It will cure the sore feet of the Armies of the World.  It’s a revelation!  It will be in the knapsack of every soldier who goes to manoeuvers or to war!  It will be a jolly sight more useful than a marshal’s baton!  It will bring soothing comfort to millions of brave men!  Why did I never think of it?  I must go round to all the War Offices of the civilized globe.  It’s colossal.  It makes your brain reel.  Friend of Humanity?  I shall be the Benefactor of the Human Race.”

“What will you have to drink?” asked Septimus.

“Anything. Donnez-moi un bock,” he said impatiently, obsessed by his new idea.  “Tell me, Monsieur Cruchot, you who have used the Cure Sypher.  It is well known in the French army is it not?  You had it served out from the regimental medical stores?”

“Ah, no, Monsieur.  It is my mother who rubbed it on my heels.”

Sypher’s face expressed disappointment, but he cheered up again immediately.

“Never mind.  It is the idea that you have given me.  I am very grateful to you, Monsieur Cruchot.”

Hegisippe laughed.  “It is to my mother you should be grateful, Monsieur.”

“I should like to present her with a free order for the Cure for life ­if I knew where she lived.”

“That is easy,” said Hegisippe, “seeing that she is concierge in the house where the belle dame of Monsieur has her appartement.”

“Her appartement?” Sypher turned sharply to Septimus.  “What’s that?  I thought you lived at the Hotel Godet.”

“Of course,” said Septimus, feeling very uncomfortable.  “I live in the hotel, and Emmy lives in a flat.  She couldn’t very well stay in the Hotel Godet, because it isn’t a nice place for ladies.  There’s a dog in the courtyard that howls.  I tried to throw him some cold ham the other morning about six o’clock to stop him; but it hit a sort of dustman, who ate it and looked up for more.  It was very good ham, and I was going to have it for supper.”

“But, my dear man,” said Sypher, laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and paying no heed to the dog, ham, and dustman story, “aren’t you two living together?”

“Oh, dear, not” said Septimus, in alarm, and then, catching at the first explanation ­“you see, our hours are different.”

Sypher shook his head uncomprehendingly.  The proprietor of the establishment, in dingy shirt-sleeves, set down the beer before him.  Hegisippe, who had mixed his absinthe and was waiting politely until their new friend should be served, raised his glass.

“Just before you came, Monsieur,” said he, “I was about to drink to the health ­”

“Of L’Armee-Francaise,” interrupted Septimus, reaching out his glass.

“But no,” laughed Hegisippe.  “It was to Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe.”

“Bebe?” cried Sypher, and Septimus felt his clear, swift glance read his soul.

They clinked glasses.  Hegisippe, defying the laws governing the absorption of alcohols, tossed off his absinthe in swashbuckler fashion, and rose.

“Now I leave you.  You have many things to talk about.  My respectful compliments to Madame.  Messieurs, au revoir.”

He shook hands, saluted and swaggered off, his chéchia at the very back of his head, leaving half his shaven crown uncovered in front.

“A fine fellow, your friend, an intelligent fellow ­” said Sypher, watching him.

“He’s going to be a waiter,” said Septimus.

“Now that he has had his heels rubbed with the cure he may be more ambitious.  A valuable fellow, for having given me a stupendous idea ­but a bit indiscreet, eh?  Never mind,” he added, seeing the piteous look on Septimus’s face.  “I’ll have discretion for the two of us.  I’ll not breathe a word of it to anybody.”

“Thank you,” said Septimus.

There was an awkward silence.  Septimus traced a diagram on the table with the spilled tea.  Sypher lighted a cigar, which he smoked in the corner of his mouth, American fashion.

“Well, I’m damned!” he muttered below his breath.

He looked hard at Septimus, intent on his tea drawing.  Then he shifted his cigar impatiently to the other side of his mouth.  “No, I’m damned if I am.  I can’t be.”

“You can’t be what?” asked Septimus, catching his last words.

“Damned.”

“Why should you be?”

“Look here,” said Sypher, “I’ve rushed in rather unceremoniously into your private affairs.  I’m sorry.  But I couldn’t help taking an interest in the two of you, both for your own sake and that of Zora Middlemist.”

“I suppose you would do anything for her.”

“Yes.”

“So would I,” said Septimus, in a low voice.  “There are some women one lives for and others one dies for.”

“She is one of the women for whom one would live.”

Septimus shook his head.  “No, she’s the other kind.  It’s much higher.  I’ve had a lot of time to think the last few months,” he continued after a pause.  “I’ve had no one but Emmy and Hegisippe Cruchot to talk to ­and I’ve thought a great deal about women.  They usedn’t to come my way, and I didn’t know anything at all about them.”

“Do you now?” asked Sypher, with a smile.

“Oh, a great deal,” replied Septimus seriously.  “It’s astonishing what a lot of difference there is between them and between the ways men approach different types.  One woman a man wants to take by the hand and lead, and another ­he’s quite content if she makes a carpet of his body and walks over it to save her feet from sharp stones.  It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not very,” said Sypher, who took a more direct view of things than Septimus.  “It’s merely because he has got a kindly feeling for one woman and is desperately in love with the other.”

“Perhaps that’s it,” said Septimus.

Sypher again looked at him sharply, as a man does who thinks he has caught another man’s soul secret.  It was only under considerable stress of feeling that such coherence of ideas could have been expressed by his irrelevant friend.  What he had learned the last few minutes had been a surprise, a pain, and a puzzle to him.  The runaway marriage held more elements than he had imagined.  He bent forward confidentially.

“You would make a carpet of your body for Zora Middlemist?”

“Why, of course,” replied the other in perfect simplicity.

“Then, my friend, you’re desperately in love with her.”

There was kindness, help, sympathy in the big man’s voice, and Septimus, though the challenge caused him agonies of shyness, did not find it in his heart to resent Sypher’s logic.

“I suppose every man whom she befriends must feel the same towards her.  Don’t you?”

“I?  I’m different.  I’ve got a great work to carry through.  I couldn’t lie down for anybody to walk over me.  My work would suffer ­but in this mission of mine Zora Middlemist is intimately involved.  I said it when I first saw her, and I said it just before she left for California.  She is to stand by my side and help me.  How, God knows.”  He laughed, seeing the bewildered face of Septimus, who had never heard of this transcendental connection of Zora with the spread of Sypher’s Cure.  “You seem to think I’m crazy.  I’m not.  I work everything on the most hard and fast common-sense lines.  But when a voice inside you tells you a thing day and night, you must believe it.”

Said Septimus:  “If you had not met her, you wouldn’t have met Hegisippe Cruchot, and so you wouldn’t have got the idea of Army blisters.”

Sypher clapped him on the shoulder and extolled him as a miracle of lucidity.  He explained magniloquently.  It was Zora’s unseen influence working magnetically from the other side of the world that had led his footsteps towards the Hotel Godet on that particular afternoon.  She had triumphantly vindicated her assertion that geographical location of her bodily presence could make no difference.

“I asked her to stay in England, you know,” he remarked more simply, seeing that Septimus lagged behind him in his flight.

“What for?”

“Why, to help me.  For what other reason?”

Septimus took off his hat and laid it on the chair vacated by Hegisippe, and ran his fingers reflectively up his hair.  Sypher lit another cigar.  Their side of the little street was deep in shade, but on half the road and on the other side of the way the fierce afternoon sunlight blazed.  The merchant of wine, who had been lounging in his dingy shirt-sleeves against the door-post, removed the glasses and wiped the table clear of the spilled tea.  Sypher ordered two more bocks for the good of the house, while Septimus, still lost in thought, brought his hair to its highest pitch of Struwel Peterdom.  Passers-by turned round to look at them, for well-dressed Englishmen do not often sit outside a Marchand des vins, especially one with such hair.  But passers-by are polite in France and do not salute the unfamiliar with ribaldry.

“Well,” said Sypher, at last.

“We’ve been speaking intimately,” said Septimus.  He paused, then proceeded with his usual diffidence.  “I’ve never spoken intimately to a man before, and I don’t quite know how to do it ­it must be just like asking a woman to marry you ­but don’t you think you were selfish?”

“Selfish?  How?”

“In asking Zora Middlemist to give up her trip to California, just for the sake of the Cure.”

“It’s worth the sacrifice,” Sypher maintained.

“To you, yes; but it mayn’t be so to her.”

“But she believes in the thing as I do myself!” cried Sypher.

“Why should she, any more than I, or Hegisippe Cruchot?  If she did, she would have stayed.  It would have been her duty.  You couldn’t expect a woman like Zora Middlemist to fail in her duty, could you?”

Sypher rubbed his eyes, as if he saw things mistily.  But they were quite clear.  It was really Septimus Dix who sat opposite, concentrating his discursive mind on Sypher’s Cure and implicitly denying Zora’s faith.  A simple-minded man in many respects, he would not have scorned to learn wisdom out of the mouths of babes and sucklings; but out of the mouth of Septimus what wisdom could possibly proceed?  He laughed his suggestion away somewhat blusteringly and launched out again on his panegyric of the Cure.  But his faith felt a quiver all through its structure, just as a great building does at the first faint shock of earthquake.

“What made you say that about Zora Middlemist?” he asked when he had finished.

“I don’t know,” replied Septimus.  “It seemed to be right to say it.  I know when I get things into my head there appears to be room for nothing else in the world.  One takes things for granted.  When I was a child my father took it for granted that I believed in predestination.  I couldn’t; but I did not dare tell him so.  So I went about with a load of somebody else’s faith on my shoulders.  It became intolerable; and when my father found out he beat me.  He had a bit of rope tied up with twine at the end for the purpose.  I shouldn’t like this to happen to Zora.”

This ended the discussion.  The landlord at his door-post drew them into talk about the heat, the emptiness of Paris and the happy lot of those who could go into villeggiatura in the country.  The arrival of a perspiring cabman in a red waistcoat and glazed hat caused him to retire within and administer to the newcomer’s needs.

“One of my reasons for looking you up,” said Sypher, “was to make my apologies.”

“Apologies?”

“Yes.  Haven’t you thought about the book on guns and wondered at not hearing from me?”

“No,” said Septimus.  “When I’ve invented a thing the interest has gone.  I’ve just invented a new sighting apparatus.  I’ll show you the model if you’ll come to the hotel.”

Sypher looked at his watch and excused himself on the ground of business engagements.  Then he had to dine and start by the nine o’clock train.

“Anyhow,” said he, “I’m ashamed at not having done anything with the guns.  I did show the proofs to a naval expert, but he made all sorts of criticisms which didn’t help.  Experts know everything that is known and don’t want to know anything that isn’t.  So I laid it aside.”

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said Septimus eagerly, “and if you want to break the contract you sent me, I can pay you back the two hundred pounds.”  But Sypher assured him that he had never broken a contract in his life, and they shook hands and went their respective ways, Septimus to the appartement in the Boulevard Raspail, and Sypher thoughtfully in the direction of the Luxembourg.

He was sorry, very sorry for Septimus Dix.  His kindness of heart had not allowed him to tell the brutal truth about the guns.  The naval expert had scoffed in the free manner of those who follow the sea and declared the great guns a mad inventor’s dream.  The Admiralty was overwhelmed with such things.  The proofs were so much waste paper.  Sypher had come prepared to break the news as gently as he could; but after all their talk it was not in his heart to do so.  And the two hundred pounds ­he regarded it as money given to a child to play with.  He would never claim it.  He was sorry, very sorry for Septimus.  He looked back along the past year and saw the man’s dog-like devotion to Zora Middlemist.  But why did he marry Emmy, loving the sister as he did?  Why live apart from her, having married her?  And the child?  It was all a mystery in which he did not see clear.  He pitied the ineffectuality of Septimus with the kind yet half-contemptuous pity of the strong man with a fine nature.  But as for his denial of Zora’s faith, he laughed it away.  Egotistical, yes.  Zora had posed the same question as Septimus and he had answered it.  But her faith in the Cure itself, his mission to spread it far and wide over the earth, and to save the nations from vulgar competitors who thought of nothing but sordid gain ­that, he felt sure, remained unshaken.

Yet as he walked along, in the alien though familiar city, he was smitten, as with physical pain, by a craving for her presence, for the gleam of her eyes, for the greatness of sympathy and comprehension that inhabited her generous and beautiful frame.  The need of her was imperious.  He stopped at a cafe on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, called for the wherewithal to write, and like a poet in the fine frenzy of inspiration, poured out his soul to her over the heels of the armies of the world.

He had walked a great deal during the day.  When he stepped out of the cab that evening at the Gare de Lyon, he felt an unfamiliar stinging in his heel.  During the process of looking after his luggage and seeking his train he limped about the platform.  When he undressed for the night in his sleeping compartment, he found that a ruck in his sock had caused a large blister.  He regarded it with superstitious eyes, and thought of the armies of the world. In hoc signo vinces! The message had come from heaven.

He took a sample box of Sypher’s Cure from his handbag, and, almost with reverence, anointed his heel.