id, nodding at him in a way
calculated to convince.

"'Allow me,' he answered, and promptly wrung my hand. 'I ought
t'have warned you--I always run in circles, this condish'n.
Bad habit: never could break myself. 'Scuse me; haven't been drunk
for years.' He pulled himself up and eyed me earnestly. 'Wha's your
suggest'n under shirkumstanches? Retrace steps?'

"'As I figure it out,' said I, sweet and reasonable, 'that also would
lead us back to the 'Catalafina.''

"'Quite so,' he agreed, nodding back as I nodded. 'Case hopelesh,
then. No posh'ble way out.'

"'Well, I don't know,' said I. 'If we go straight on until we find a
turning to the left. . . . And look here,' I put in, grabbing him
again, for he was starting to run. 'Since there's no one in chase
apparently, I suggest that we walk. It looks better, if we meet a
constable: though there seems to be none about ... so far.'

"'Scand'lous!' said Farrell.

"'What's scandalous?' I asked.

"'Lax'ty Metr'pl't'n P'lice.' He took me by a buttonhole, finger and
thumb. 'Dish--district notorious. One-worst-Lond'n. Dish--damn the
word--distr'ck like this, anything might happen any moment.
Mus' speak about it. . . . You just wait till I'm on County
Counshle.'

"I took him by the arm and steered him. I did it beautifully, though
it's undeniable that I had taken wine to excess. I did it so
beautifully that we met not a living soul--or if we did, Otty, I
failed to remark it. . . . I don't suppose it was really happening as
I felt it was happening. I just tell how it felt. . . . Farrell and
I were ranging arm-in-arm through a quarter that had mysteriously
hushed and hidden itself at our approach. There were pianos tinkling
from upper storeys: there were muffled choruses with banjo or guitar
accompaniments humming up from the bowels of the earth: there were
chinks of light between blinds, under doorways, down areas.
There was even a flare of light, now and again, blaring to gramophone
accompaniment across the street from a gin-palace or a corner public.
But the glass of these places of entertainment was all opaque, and
there were no loungers on the kerb in front of any. . . . I held
Farrell tightly beneath the elbow, and steered through this enchanted
purlieu.

"'S'pose you know where you're heading?' said Farrell after a while.

"'On these occasions,' said I, 'one steers by the pole-star.'

"'Where is it?' he demanded.

"'At this moment, so far as I