ual."

A lanky hawker, lying full length upon a sack, his pipe glowing in the
darkness, exchanged these pleasantries with Alban at the entrance. There
were fires by here and there in these depths and the smoke was often
suffocating. The huddled groups declared all grades of ill-fortune and
of crime; from that of the "pauper parson" to the hoariest house-breaker
"resting" for a season. Alban's little set, so far as he had a "set" at
all, consisted of the sometime curate of a fashionable West End Church,
known to the company as the Archbishop of Bloomsbury; the Lady Sarah, a
blooming, red-cheeked girl who sold flowers in Regent Street, "the
Panorama," an old showman's son who had not a sixpenny piece in his
pocket, but whose schemes were invariably about to bring him in "two
thousand next Tuesday morning"; and "Betty," a pretty, fair-haired lad,
thrown on the streets God knows how or by what callous act of
indifferent parentage. Regularly as the clock struck, this quartette
would gather in a tiny "chapel" of the cellars and sleep about a fire
kindled in a grate which might have baked meats for the Tudors. They
spoke of the events of the day with moderation and wise philosophy. It
would be different to-morrow. Such was ever their text.

"My lord the Duke is late. Does aught of fortune keep your nobility?"

The ex-parson made way for Alban, grandiloquently offering a niche upon
the bare floor and a view of the reddening embers. The boy "Betty" was
already asleep, while the Lady Sarah and "the Panorama" divided a
fourpenny pie most faithfully between them. A reeking atmosphere of
spirit (but not of water) testified to the general conviviality. A hum
of conversation was borne in upon them from the greater cellar--at odd
times a rough oath of protest or the mad complainings of a drunkard. For
the most part, however, the night promised to be uneventful. Alban had
never seen the Lady Sarah more gracious, and as for "the Panorama" he
had no doubt whatever that his fortune was made.

"My contract for America's going through and I shall be out there with a
show in a month," this wild youth said--and added patronizingly, "When I
come back, it will be dinner upstairs, old chaps--and some of the best.
Do you suppose that I could forget you? I would as soon forget my
father's grave."

They heard him with respect--no one differing from him.

"I shall certainly be pleased to accept your kind invitation," said the
Archbishop, "that