professionals from Notting Hill, you know; told me his
life. Never had a chance, of course. The most interesting part was
telling him I 'd seen him pick three pockets--like creeping into a cave,
when you can't tell what 's inside."

"Well?"

"He showed me what he 'd got--only fivepence halfpenny."

"And what became of your friend?" asked Shelton.

"Oh, went off; he had a splendidly low forehead."

They had reached Shelton's rooms.

"Will you come in," said the latter, "and have a drink?"

The youth smiled, blushed, and shook his head.

"No, thank you," he said; "I have to walk to Whitechapel. I 'm living on
porridge now; splendid stuff for making bone. I generally live on
porridge for a week at the end of every month. It 's the best diet if
you're hard up"; once more blushing and smiling, he was gone.

Shelton went upstairs and sat down on his bed. He felt a little
miserable. Sitting there, slowly pulling out the ends of his white tie,
disconsolate, he had a vision of Antonia with her gaze fixed wonderingly
on him. And this wonder of hers came as a revelation--just as that
morning, when, looking from his window, he had seen a passer-by stop
suddenly and scratch his leg; and it had come upon him in a flash that
that man had thoughts and feelings of his own. He would never know what
Antonia really felt and thought. "Till I saw her at the station, I did
n't know how much I loved her or how little I knew her"; and, sighing
deeply, he hurried into bed.

CHAPTER XV

POLE TO POLE

The waiting in London for July to come was daily more unbearable to
Shelton, and if it had not been for Ferrand, who still came to breakfast,
he would have deserted the Metropolis. On June first the latter
presented himself rather later than was his custom, and announced that,
through a friend, he had heard of a position as interpreter to an hotel
at Folkestone.

"If I had money to face the first necessities," he said, swiftly turning
over a collection of smeared papers with his yellow fingers, as if
searching for his own identity, "I 'd leave today. This London blackens
my spirit."

"Are you certain to get this place," asked Shelton.

"I think so," the young foreigner replied; "I 've got some good enough
recommendations."

Shelton could not help a dubious glance at the papers in his hand. A
hurt look passed on to Ferrand's curly lips beneath his nascent red
moustache.

"You mean that to have false papers is