d whose laziness was most
phenomenal. After this morning, however, his services would be
dispensed with. For once he had gone a little too far. Eight o'clock
and no sign of him. It was monstrous! The little man produced a few
coppers and glanced towards Douglas with some hesitation.

Douglas laughed softly.

"I don't want any money, thanks," he said, "but if I could beg a piece
of bread or cake, I'm really hungry."

The little man nodded and hastened into the shop. Douglas followed him.

"If you'd care for a cup of milk," he remarked, taking a tin from the
door handle, "we can manage it. No tea yet, I'm afraid."

"I should enjoy the milk very much if you can spare it."

He made a curious meal. A little hysterical, but stronger at every
mouthful. The little man watched him covertly.

"Like a wash?" he inquired.

"Rather," Douglas answered. After all, it was a good start for the day.

He walked out of the shop a quarter of an hour later a new man, spruce
and clean, smoking a cigarette, and with the terrors of the night far
behind him. The cold water had been like a sweet, keen tonic to him.
The cobwebs had gone from his brain. Memory had returned. What a fool
he had been. There was no such person as Douglas Guest. Douglas Guest
was dead. What need for him to fear?

The greatest desire he had now was for a morning newspaper, but though
he tried every pocket several times over he was absolutely penniless.
Then he thought of the Free Libraries--a sudden and delightful
inspiration. A policeman directed him. He entered a handsome building,
and being early had his choice of the great dailies, neatly cut and
arranged upon rollers for him. One by one he read them through with
feverish interest, and when he set them down he laughed softly to
himself. There was not one of them which did not chronicle the death of
Douglas Guest on the Midland Express, and refer to him as the person
wanted for the Feldwick murder. So he was safe, after all. The press
had made it clearer than ever. Douglas Guest was dead. Henceforth he
need have no fear.

He moved to the tables where the reviews and magazines were, and spent a
pleasant hour or two amongst them. He planned out a new story, saw his
way to a satirical article upon a popular novel, thought of an epigram,
and walked out into the street a few minutes before one with something
of the old exhilaration of spirits dancing through his veins. His
condition of absolute poverty had not