He was conscious that Tarrant, after the first shock of surprise, was watching him with a sort of cold disgust; and also that, when the work of destruction was over, their relative situations would be exactly what they had been before. But this cool appreciation of the case was far below the surface of his emotions. He could not resist the sombre physical satisfaction of destroying under that man's eyes what he had made… .

The last scrap dropped to the floor, and Tarrant said quietly: "I'm afraid now you'll have to send round and get the copy you have at home."

"I've no other copy," Vance retorted.

"That's a pity. You've given yourself a lot of unnecessary work—and I'm damned if I see why. What's the sense of having to begin the thing all over again?"

"I shall never begin it over again."

"Well, if you weren't satisfied with it, or thought it wouldn't suit our purpose, I daresay you're right. But in that case I'll have to ask you to buckle down and turn out something else in the shortest possible time. We've been a good many months now without getting any return for our money… ."

"I shall never write anything for you again," said Vance slowly.

Tarrant did not speak for a moment or two. His colour had faded to its usual ivory-like sallowness, and the furrow deepened between his ironically lifted eyebrows. He had the immense advantage over his antagonist that anger made him cold instead of hot.

"Never? You'd better think that over, hadn't you? You understand, of course, that your not writing for us won't set you free to write for anybody else till the four years are over."

Vance looked at him with something of the other's own chill contempt. His wrath had dropped; he felt only immeasurably repelled.

"You mean, then," he said, "that even if I don't write another line for you you'll hold onto me?"

"I'm afraid you've left me no alternative," Tarrant answered coldly. He rang the bell on his desk, and said to the office boy who appeared: "Clear up those papers, will you?"

In the street Vance drew a long breath. He did not know what would happen next—could not see a fraction of an inch into the future. But in destroying the first chapters of Loot he felt as if he had torn the claws of an incubus out of his flesh. He had no idea that he had hated the book so much—or was it only Tarrant he was hating when he thought of it? He flung on, flushed, defiant. He felt like a balloonist who has thrown out all his ballast: extraordinarily light and irresponsible, he bounded up toward the zenith… .