that he could see into the night. He had spied the
first bright filaments of London. Quickly they spread into a twinkling
network, and then as quickly were shut out by the first line of suburb
houses; through the gaps they grew nearer and flared cheerfully; the train
hooted over an archway, and in the road below he had a glimpse of shop
windows and crowded pavements and moving omnibuses: he was in the world
again, and at the foretaste of all this life he laughed like a delighted
child. Last of all came the spread of shining rails and the red and yellow
lights of many signals, and then the high glass roof and long lamp-lit
platforms of St Euston's Cross.

Unencumbered by luggage or plans, Mr Francis Beveridge stuck his hands
deep in his pockets and strolled aimlessly enough out of the station into
the tideway of the Euston Road. For a little he stood stock-still on the
pavement watching the throng of people and the perpetual buses and drays
and the jingling hansoms picking their way through it all.

"For a man of brains," he moralised, "even though he be certified as
insane, for probably the best of reasons, this London has surely fools
enough to provide him with all he needs and more than he deserves. I shall
set out with my lantern like a second Diogenes to look for a foolish man."

And so he strolled along again to the first opening southwards. That led
him through a region of dingy enough brick by day, but decked now with its
string of lamps and bright shop-windows here and there, and kept alive by
passing buses and cabs going and coming from the station. Farther on the
street grew gloomier, and a dark square with a grove of trees in the
middle opened off one side; but, rattle or quiet, flaring shops or
sad-looking lodgings, he found it all too fresh and amusing to hurry.

"Back to my parish again," he said to himself, smiling broadly at the
drollery of the idea. "If I'm caught to-morrow, I'll at least have one
merry night in my wicked, humorous old charge."

He reached Holborn and turned west in the happiest and most enviable of
moods; the very policemen seemed to cast a friendly eye on him; the frosty
air, he thought, made the lights burn brighter and the crowd move more
briskly than ever he had seen them. Suddenly the sight of a hairdresser's
saloon brought an inspiration. He stroked his beard, twisted his
moustaches half regretfully, and then exclaiming, "Exit Mr Beveridge,"
turned into the shop.