slate for the unhappy wretches one sees about in
the streets? If people's faces are a fair test of their happiness, I' d
rather not feel in any way responsible....

The streets, in fact, after his long absence in the East, afforded
him much food for thought: the curious smugness of the passers-by; the
utterly unending bustle; the fearful medley of miserable, over-driven
women, and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he saw
everywhere--in club windows, on their beats, on box seats, on the
steps of hotels, discharging dilatory duties; the appalling chaos
of hard-eyed, capable dames with defiant clothes, and white-cheeked
hunted-looking men; of splendid creatures in their cabs, and cadging
creatures in their broken hats--the callousness and the monotony!

One afternoon in May he received this letter couched in French:

3, BLANK ROW

WESTMINSTER.

MY DEAR SIR,

Excuse me for recalling to your memory the offer of assistance you so
kindly made me during the journey from Dover to London, in which I was
so fortunate as to travel with a man like you. Having beaten the whole
town, ignorant of what wood to make arrows, nearly at the end of my
resources, my spirit profoundly discouraged, I venture to avail myself
of your permission, knowing your good heart. Since I saw you I have run
through all the misfortunes of the calendar, and cannot tell what door
is left at which I have not knocked. I presented myself at the business
firm with whose name you supplied me, but being unfortunately in rags,
they refused to give me your address. Is this not very much in the
English character? They told me to write, and said they would forward
the letter. I put all my hopes in you.

Believe me, my dear sir,

(whatever you may decide)

Your devoted

LOUIS FERRAND.

Shelton looked at the envelope, and saw, that it, bore date a week
ago. The face of the young vagrant rose before him, vital, mocking,
sensitive; the sound of his quick French buzzed in his ears, and, oddly,
the whole whiff of him had a power of raising more vividly than ever his
memories of Antonia. It had been at the end of the journey from Hyeres
to London that he had met him; that seemed to give the youth a claim.

He took his hat and hurried, to Blank Row. Dismissing his cab at
the corner of Victoria Street he with difficulty found the house in
question. It was a doorless place, with stone-flagged corridor--in other
words, a "doss-house." By tapping