id lifted hands and sighed-forth prayers the youthful
object of so much entreaty, receiver of so many secret sorrows, seemed
to fade and, without effort, to recede. I know not how else to
describe his departure. He backed away, as it were, into the dark. The
people were on their feet ere this. Sighs, wailing, appeals, sobs,
adjurations broke the quietness of the night. Some ran stumbling after
him with extended arms; most of them stayed where they were, watching
him fade, hoping against hope. He emptied himself, so to speak, of
light; he faded backward, diminishing himself to a luminous glow, to a
blur, to a point of light. Thus he was gone. The disappointed crept
silently away, each into silence, solitude and the night, and I found
myself alone with the policeman.

Now, what in the name of God was all this? I asked him, and must have
it. He gave me some particulars, admitting at the outset that it was a
"go." "They seem to think," he said, "that they will get what they
want out of him--by wire. Let him bring them a wire in the morning;
that's the way of it. Anything in life, from sudden death to a
penn'orth of bird-seed. Death! Ah, I've heard 'em cringe to him for
death, times and again. They crawl for it--they must have it. Can't do
it theirselves, d'ye see? No, no. Let him do it--somehow. Once a week,
during the season--his season, I should say, because he ain't here
always, by no means--they gets about like this; and how they know
where to spot him is more than I can tell you. If I knew it, I
would--but I don't. Nobody knows that--and yet they know it. Sometimes
he's to be found here two weeks running; then it'll be the Regent's
Park, or the Knoll in the Green Park. He's had 'em all the way to
Hampstead before now, and Primrose Hill's a likely place, they tell
me. Telegrams: that's what he gives 'em--if he's got the mind. But
they don't get all they want, not by no means. And some of 'em gets
more than they want, by a lot." He thought, then chuckled at a rather
grim instance.

"Why, there was old Jack Withers, 'blue-nosed Jack' they calls him,
who works a Hammersmith 'bus! Did you ever hear of that? That was a
good one, if you like. Now you listen. This Jack was coming up the
Brompton Road on his 'bus--and I was on duty by the Boltons and see
him coming. There was that young feller there too--him we've just had
here--standing quiet by a pillar-box, reading a letter. One foot he
had in the roadway, and his back to