a canary, his hands folded on his pinched-up hat, a nervous smile upon
his lips. He was dressed in Shelton's old frock-coat, tightly buttoned,
and would have cut a stylish figure but far his look of travel. He wore
a pair of pince-nez, too, which somewhat veiled his cynical blue eyes,
and clashed a little with the pagan look of him. In the midst of the
strange surroundings he still preserved that air of knowing, and being
master of, his fate, which was his chief attraction.

"I 'm glad to see you," said Shelton, holding out his hand.

"Forgive this liberty," began Ferrand, "but I thought it due to you after
all you've done for me not to throw up my efforts to get employment in
England without letting you know first. I'm entirely at the end of my
resources."

The phrase struck Shelton as one that he had heard before.

"But I wrote to you," he said; "did n't you get my letter?"

A flicker passed across the vagrant's face; he drew the letter from his
pocket and held it out.

"Here it is, monsieur."

Shelton stared at it.

"Surely," said he, "I sent a cheque?"

Ferrand did not smile; there was a look about him as though Shelton by
forgetting to enclose that cheque had done him a real injury.

Shelton could not quite hide a glance of doubt.

"Of course," he said, "I--I--meant to enclose a cheque."

Too subtle to say anything, Ferrand curled his lip. "I am capable of
much, but not of that," he seemed to say; and at once Shelton felt the
meanness of his doubt.

"Stupid of me," he said.

"I had no intention of intruding here," said Ferrand; "I hoped to see you
in the neighbourhood, but I arrive exhausted with fatigue. I've eaten
nothing since yesterday at noon, and walked thirty miles." He shrugged
his shoulders. "You see, I had no time to lose before assuring myself
whether you were here or not."

"Of course--" began Shelton, but again he stopped.

"I should very much like," the young foreigner went on, "for one of your
good legislators to find himself in these country villages with a penny
in his pocket. In other countries bakers are obliged to sell you an
equivalent of bread for a penny; here they won't sell you as much as a
crust under twopence. You don't encourage poverty."

"What is your idea now?" asked Shelton, trying to gain time.

"As I told you," replied Ferrand, "there 's nothing to be done at
Folkestone, though I should have stayed there if I had had the money to
defray certain expen