jolly; one of the darkest bits in London--it is
really. If you care, I can take you through an awfully dangerous place
where the police never go." He seemed so anxious for the honour that
Shelton was loath to disappoint him. "I come here pretty often," he went
on, as they ascended a sort of alley rambling darkly between a wall and
row of houses.

"Why?" asked Shelton; "it does n't smell too nice."

The young man threw up his nose and sniffed, as if eager to add any new
scent that might be about to his knowledge of life.

"No, that's one of the reasons, you know," he said; "one must find out.
The darkness is jolly, too; anything might happen here. Last week there
was a murder; there 's always the chance of one."

Shelton stared; but the charge of morbidness would not lie against this
fresh-cheeked stripling.

"There's a splendid drain just here," his guide resumed; "the people are
dying like flies of typhoid in those three houses"; and under the first
light he turned his grave, cherubic face to indicate the houses. "If
we were in the East End, I could show you other places quite as good.
There's a coffee-stall keeper in one that knows all the thieves
in London; he 's a splendid type, but," he added, looking a little
anxiously at Shelton, "it might n't be safe for you. With me it's
different; they 're beginning to know me. I've nothing to take, you
see."

"I'm afraid it can't be to-night," said Shelton; "I must get back."

"Do you mind if I walk with you? It's so jolly now the stars are out."

"Delighted," said Shelton; "do you often go to that club?"

His companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"They 're rather too high-class for me," he said. "I like to go where
you can see people eat--school treats, or somewhere in the country.
It does one good to see them eat. They don't get enough, you see, as
a rule, to make bone; it's all used up for brain and muscle. There are
some places in the winter where they give them bread and cocoa; I like
to go to those."

"I went once," said Shelton, "but I felt ashamed for putting my nose
in."

"Oh, they don't mind; most of them are half-dead with cold, you know.
You see splendid types; lots of dipsomaniacs . . . . It 's useful to
me," he went on as they passed a police-station, "to walk about at
night; one can take so much more notice. I had a jolly night last week
in Hyde Park; a chance to study human nature there."

"And do you find it interes