of the quill went on. Mr. Stone put it down at last, and, seeing two
persons in the room, read:

"'Looking back at those days when the doctrine of evolution had reached
its pinnacle, one sees how the human mind, by its habit of continual
crystallisations, had destroyed all the meaning of the process. Witness,
for example, that sterile phenomenon, the pagoda of 'caste'! Like this
Chinese building, so was Society then formed. Men were living there in
layers, as divided from each other, class from class---'" He took up the
quill, and again began to write.

"You understand, I suppose," said Hilary in a low voice, "that she has
been told not to come?"

Bianca moved her shoulders.

With a most unwonted look of anger, he added:

"Is it within the scope of your generosity to credit me with the desire
to meet your wishes?"

Bianca's answer was a laugh so strangely hard, so cruelly bitter, that
Hilary involuntarily turned, as though to retrieve the sound before it
reached the old man's ears.

Mr. Stone had laid down his pen. "I shall write no more to-day," he
said; "I have lost my feeling--I am not myself." He spoke in a voice
unlike his own.

Very tired and worn his old figure looked; as some lean horse, whose sun
has set, stands with drooped head, the hollows in his neck showing under
his straggling mane. And suddenly, evidently quite oblivious that he had
any audience, he spoke:

"O Great Universe, I am an old man of a faint spirit, with no singleness
of purpose. Help me to write on--help me to write a book such as the
world has never seen!"

A dead silence followed that strange prayer; then Bianca, with tears
rolling down her face, got up and rushed out of the room.

Mr. Stone came to himself. His mute, white face had suddenly grown
scared and pink. He looked at Hilary.

"I fear that I forgot myself. Have I said anything peculiar?"

Not feeling certain of his voice, Hilary shook his head, and he, too,
moved towards the door.

CHAPTER XXIV

SHADOWLAND

"Each of us has a shadow in those places--in those streets."

That saying of Mr. Stone's, which--like so many of his sayings--had
travelled forth to beat the air, might have seemed, even "in those days,"
not altogether without meaning to anyone who looked into the room of Mr.
Joshua Creed in Hound Street.

This aged butler lay in bed waiting for the inevitable striking of a
small alarum clock placed in the very centre of his mantelpiece.