er; and having exchanged a
few commonplaces with the astonished lad plainly intimated that he would
be alone. Alban, surprised beyond measure, perceived in his turn that no
amount of questioning would help him to a better understanding; and so,
in a state of perplexity which defied expression, he said "Good night"
and went out into the quiet street.

CHAPTER XIV

THERE ARE STRANGERS IN THE CAVES

It was some time after midnight when Alban reached Broad Street Station
and discovered that the last train for Hampstead had left. A certain
uneasiness as to what his new friends would think of him did not deter
him from his sudden determination to turn westward and seek out his old
haunts. He had warned Richard Gessner that no house would ever make a
prisoner of him, and this quick desire for liberty now burned in his
veins as a fever. It would be good, he thought, to sleep under the stars
once more and to imagine himself that same Alban Kennedy who had not
known whither to look for bread--could it be but five short weeks ago!

The city was very still as he passed through it and, save for a
broken-down motor omnibus with a sleepy conductor for its guardian,
Cheapside appeared to be almost destitute of traffic. The great
buildings, wherein men sought the gold all day, were now given over to
watchmen and the rats, as the bodies of the seekers would one day be
given over to the earth whence they sprang. Alban depicted a great army
of the servants of money asleep in distant homes, and he could not but
ask what happiness they carried there, what capacities for rest and true
enjoyment.

Was it true, as he had begun to believe, that the life of pleasure had
cares of its own, hardly less supportable than those which crushed the
poor to the very earth? Was the daily round of abundance, of lights and
music and wine and women--was it but the basest of shams, scarce
deceiving those who practised it? His brief experience seemed to answer
the question in the affirmative. He wondered if he had known such an
hour of true happiness as that which had come to him upon the last night
he had spent in the Caves. Honesty said that he had not--and to the
Caves he now turned as one who would search out forgotten pleasures.

The building in St. James' Street had made great advance since last he
saw it, but he observed to his satisfaction that the entrance to the
subterranean passages were not absolutely closed, and he did not doubt
that