m at the same time.'

Bob looked gloomy.

'Well, it's no use talking,' he muttered.

'It's all your fault.'

'How do you make that out? It was you quarrelled first.'

'You're a liar!'

'Oh, there's no talking to you!'

He shuffled with his feet, then rose.

'Where can I see you on Wednesday morning?' asked Clem. 'I want to hear
about that girl.'

'It can't be Wednesday morning. I tell you I shall be getting the sack
next thing; they've promised it. Two days last week I wasn't at the
shop, and one day this. It can't go on.'

His companion retorted angrily, and for five minutes they stood in
embittered colloquy. It ended in Bob's turning away and going out into
the street. Clem followed, and they walked westwards in silence.
Beaching City Road, and crossing to the corner where lowers St. Luke's
Hospital--grim abode of the insane, here in the midst of London's
squalor and uproar--they halted to take leave. The last words they
exchanged, after making an appointment, were of brutal violence.

This was two days after Clara Hewett's arrival in London, and the same
fog still hung about the streets, allowing little to be seen save the
blurred glimmer of gas. Bob sauntered through it, his hands in his
pockets, observant of nothing; now and then a word escaped his lips,
generally an oath. Out of Old Street he turned into Whitecross Street,
whence by black and all but deserted ways--Barbican and Long Lane--he
emerged into West Smithfield. An alley in the shadow of Bartholomew's
Hospital brought him to a certain house: just as he was about to knock
at the door it opened, and Jack Bartley appeared on the threshold. They
exchanged a 'Hello!' of surprise, and after a whispered word or two en
the pavement, went in. They mounted the stairs to a bedroom which Jack
occupied. When the door was closed:

'Bill's got copped! 'whispered Bartley.

'Copped? Any of it on him?'

'Only the half-crown as he was pitchin', thank God! They let him go
again after he'd been to the station. It was a conductor, I'd never try
them blokes myself; they're too downy.'

'Let's have a look at 'em,' said Bob, after musing. 'I thought myself
as they wasn't quite the reg'lar.'

As he spoke he softly turned the key in the door. Jack then put his arm
up the chimney and brought down a small tin box, soot-blackened; he
opened it, and showed about a dozen pieces of money--in appearance
half-crowns and florins. One of the commonest of offences against