nodded.

"I am quite myself again," he said, steadily. "I am much obliged to you
for looking after me. You are very kind."

He drew some gold pieces hesitatingly from his pocket. She motioned him
to replace them.

"I don't want any money, thanks," she said. "Now listen. That street
there is all lodging-houses. Go and get a room and lie quiet for a bit.
They're used to odd folk down here, and you look like a painter or a
writer. Say you're an actor out of a job, or anything that comes
handy."

"Thank you," he said. "I understand."

She turned away.

"Good night, then."

"Good night."

He heard something that sounded like a sob, and the quick rustling of
skirts. He turned round. She was by the corner--out of sight already.
At the bottom of the street was the glitter of a gas lamp reflected from
the walk. He walked down and found himself on Chelsea Embankment. He
made his way to the wall with the gold which she had refused still in
his hand, and without hesitation threw the coins far out into the river.
Then he looked around. There was not a soul in sight. He drew a
handful of money from his pocket and flung it away--a little shower of
gold flashing brightly in the gaslight for a moment. He went through
his pockets carefully and found an odd half sovereign and some silver.
Away they went. Then he moved back to a seat and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER VII

A NIGHT IN HELL--AND NEXT DAY

There are few men, Douglas had once read, who have not spent one night
of their lives in hell. When morning came he knew that he at least was
amongst the majority. Sleep had never once touched his eyelids--his
most blessed respite had been a few moments of deadly stupor, when the
red fires had ceased to play before his eyes, and the old man's upturned
face had faded away into the chill mists. Yet when at last he rose he
asked himself, with a sudden passionate eagerness, whether after all it
might not have been a terrible dream. He gazed around eagerly looking
for a latticed window with dimity curtains, a blue papered wall hung
with texts, and a low beamed ceiling. Alas! Before him was a
white-shrouded river, around him a wilderness of houses, and a long row
of faintly-burning lights stretched from where he sat all along the
curving embankment. He was wearing unfamiliar clothes, and a doubled-up
newspaper was in his pockets. It was all true then, the flight across
the moor, the strange ride to town, the wild exhilaration of spi