ure was there. The only human note about the child seemed to be
that, looking at him shortly after tea-time, Burton discovered that he
had fallen asleep in his chair.

Burton took up his hat and stole softly out of the room. As quickly as
he could, he made his way to the offices of the Piccadilly Gazette and
sought his friend the sub-editor. The sub-editor greeted him with a
nod.

"Heard about your novel yet?" he inquired.

"I had it back this morning," his caller replied. "I have sent it away
somewhere else. I have written you a little study of 'The Children of
London.' I hope you will like it."

The sub-editor nodded and glanced it through. He laid it down by his
side and for the first time there seemed to be a shadow of hesitation in
his tone.

"Don't force yourself, Burton," he advised, looking curiously at his
contributor. "We will use this in a day or two. You can apply at the
cashier's office for your cheque when you like. But if you don't mind
my saying so, there are little touches here, repetitions, that might be
improved, I think."

Burton thanked him and went home with money in his pocket. He undressed
the boy, who sleepily demanded a bath, put him to sleep in his own bed,
and threw himself into an easy-chair. It was late, but he had not
troubled to light a lamp. He sat for hours looking out into the
shadows. A new responsibility, indeed, had come into life. He was
powerless to grapple with it. The grotesqueness of the situation
appalled him. How could he plan or dream like other men when the
measure of the child's existence, as of his own, could be counted by
weeks? For the first time since his emancipation he looked back into
the past without a shudder. If one had realized, if one had only taken
a little pains, would it not have been possible to have escaped from the
life of bondage by less violent but more permanent means? It was only
the impulse which was lacking. He sat dreaming there until he fell into
a deep sleep.

CHAPTER XXII

DOUBTS

Mr. Bomford in his town clothes was a strikingly adequate reflection of
the fashion of the times. From the tips of his patent boots, his neatly
tied black satin tie, his waistcoat with its immaculate white slip, to
his glossy silk hat, he was an entirely satisfactory reproduction. The
caretaker who admitted him to Burton's rooms sighed as she let him in.
He represented exactly her ideal of a gentleman.

"Mr. Burton and the little boy are both in the s