here the crowd was thinner, and
came out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the house-doors were open,
and he made several applications for hospitality, but either his story
was doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. At
length, when again his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal to
a policeman.

'Surely you can tell,' he protested, after explaining his position,
'that I don't want to cheat anybody. I shall have money to-morrow. If
no one will take me in you must haul me on some charge to the
police-station; I shall have to lie down on the pavement in a minute.'

The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a
threshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations
which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an
underground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent for
a week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far as to supply
him with warm water, that he might in a measure cleanse himself. This
operation rapidly performed, the hapless author flung himself into bed,
and before long was fast asleep.

When he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he discovered
that his host kept an oil-shop.

'Lost everything, have you?' asked the man sympathetically.

'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to
save. All my books burnt!'

Biffen shook his head dolorously.

'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!--and what
might your business be?'

The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was invited to
break his fast, which he did right willingly. Then, with assurances
that he would return before nightfall, he left the house. His steps were
naturally first directed to Clipstone Street; the familiar abode was a
gruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbours informed him that Mr Briggs's
body had been brought forth in a horrible condition; but this was the
only loss of life that had happened.

Thence he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville Street,
Islington. He found Reardon by the fireside, looking very ill, and
speaking with hoarseness.

'Another cold?'

'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy me
some vermin-killer. That would suit my case.'

'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in the
literal sense of the words omnia mea mecum porto.'

He recounted his adventures, and with such humo