fortune arising
from misconduct. Had Lopez found his crossing at Birmingham he would
hardly have swept it well.

Early on the following morning he was up, and before he left his
room he kissed his wife. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don't be
down-hearted."

"If you have anything before you to do, I will not be down-hearted,"
she said.

"I shall have something to do before night, I think. Tell your
father, when you see him, that I will not trouble him here much
longer. But tell him, also, that I have no thanks to give him for his
hospitality."

"I will not tell him that, Ferdinand."

"He shall know it, though. But I do not mean to be cross to you.
Good-bye, love." Then he stooped over her and kissed her again;--and
so he took his leave of her.

It was raining hard, and when he got into the street he looked about
for a cab, but there was none to be found. In Baker Street he got an
omnibus which took him down to the underground railway, and by that
he went to Gower Street. Through the rain he walked up to the Euston
Station, and there he ordered breakfast. Could he have a mutton chop
and some tea? And he was very particular that the mutton chop should
be well cooked. He was a good-looking man, of fashionable appearance,
and the young lady who attended him noticed him and was courteous to
him. He condescended even to have a little light conversation with
her, and, on the whole, he seemed to enjoy his breakfast. "Upon my
word, I should like to breakfast here every day of my life," he said.
The young lady assured him that, as far as she could see, there was
no objection to such an arrangement. "Only it's a bore, you know,
coming out in the rain when there are no cabs," he said. Then there
were various little jokes between them, till the young lady was quite
impressed with the gentleman's pleasant affability.

After a while he went back into the hall and took a first-class
return ticket, not for Birmingham, but for the Tenway Junction. It
is quite unnecessary to describe the Tenway Junction, as everybody
knows it. From this spot, some six or seven miles distant from
London, lines diverge east, west, and north, north-east, and
north-west, round the metropolis in every direction, and with direct
communication with every other line in and out of London. It is a
marvellous place, quite unintelligible to the uninitiated, and yet
daily used by thousands who only know that when they get there,
they are to do what some on