canary had tucked his head under
his wing and gone to sleep again. Out of the silence the clock of St.
Pancras Church struck one.

And yet he had not gone.

CHAPTER XI

A step was heard on the pavement outside; then the click of a
latch-key; a step on the stairs, at the threshold, and Mr. Pilkington
walked in with the air of being the master of the house and everything
in it.

The little laughing mask slipped from Poppy's face, her eyes were two
sapphire crescents darting fright under down-dropped lids. There was a
look in Dicky's face she did not care for. But Rickman--as Maddox had
testified--was a perfect little gentleman when he was drunk, and at
the sight of Pilkington, chivalry, immortal chivalry, leapt in his
heart.

He became suddenly grave, steady and coherent.

"I was just going, Miss Grace. But--if you want me to stay a little
longer, I'll stay."

"You'd better _go_," said Miss Grace.

Her eyes followed him sullenly as he went; so did Pilkington's.

"Well," she said, "I suppose that's what you wanted?"

"Yes, but there's no good overdoing the thing, you know. This," said
Pilkington, "is a damned sight too expensive game for him to play."

"He's all right. It wasn't his fault. I let him drink too much
champagne."

"What did you do that for? Couldn't you see he'd had enough already?"

"How was I to know? He's nicer when he's drunk than other people are
when they're sober."

He looked at her critically. "I know all about him. What I'd like to
know is what you see in him."

Poppy returned his look with interest. Coarseness in Dicky
Pilkington's eyes sat brilliant and unashamed.

"Would you? So would I. P'raps it's wot I don't see in him."

Now subtlety was the last thing Dicky expected from Poppy, and it
aroused suspicion.

Whatever Poppy's instructions were she had evidently exceeded them.
Poppy read his thoughts with accuracy.

"I only did what you told me. If you don't like it, you can finish the
job yourself. I'm tired," said Poppy, wearily coiling up her hair.

She was no longer in spirits.

CHAPTER XII

A tiny jet of gas made a glimmer in the fan-light of Mrs. Downey's
boarding-house next door. Mrs. Downey kept it burning there for Mr.
Rickman.

Guided by this beacon, he reached his door, escaping many dangers. For
the curbstone was a rocking precipice, and the street below it a grey
and shimmering stream, that rolled, and flowed, and rolled, and never
rested