out protest to the fragrant bank. "You're a good fellow," Janin went on, seated; "and you're going to be a great artist. It'll take you among the best. But you will have a hard time for a while; you won't want anybody hanging on you. I'd only hurt your chances—a dirty old man, a drugtaker. I would go back to it, Harry; it's got me, like you said. People wouldn't have me round. I doubt if I'd be comfortable with them. They'd ask me why I wasn't Director."
"Come on," Baggs repeated for the third time; "it's getting late."
He lifted French Janin to his feet and forced him on. "You don't know life," the other continued. "You would get sick of me; you might get influenced to put me in a Home. I couldn't get my breath right there."
Harry Baggs forced him over the road, half conscious of the protesting words. The fear within him increased. Perhaps they wouldn't even listen to him; they might not be there.
His grip tightened on French Janin; he knew that at the first opportunity the old man would sink back into the oblivion of morphia.
"I've done all I could for you, Harry"—the other whimpered. "I've been some—good. Janin was the first to encourage you; don't expect too much."
"If I get anywhere, you did it," Harry Baggs told him.
"I'd like to see it all," French Janin said. "I know it so well. Who'd have thought"—a dull amazement crept into his voice—"that old Janin, the sot, did it? . . . And you'll remember."
They stopped opposite the entrance to the place they
