ence, and, taking a handful of his hair, he tugged at it in a rage
of despair; then sinking his face between his hands, he sat shaking his
head mournfully from side to side.

"Listen," I said, "have you any friends?"

He raised his head.

"I had a few stray acquaintances. Nothing would tempt me to go near them
now."

"Anyone to talk to?"

"Not a soul. I haven't spoken to a soul since--since I came back."

"Fire ahead, then," I said, "talk to me. You don't know my name, I
don't know yours. You're quite safe. Say whatever you like. Go on. I'm
waiting."

He began, talking in a voice low, rapid, and restrained. He spoke so
fluently that I knew he must often have rehearsed the phrases over to
himself, muttering them, against the day when he should be granted
expression. "I had two friends. They were very good to me. I was
homeless, and they told me to look on their home as my own. I hope I
didn't trespass too much on their hospitality, but I fell into the habit
of wandering into their house every evening after dinner, and staying
there till it was time to go to bed. I really don't know which I cared
for most, in those early days, the man or the woman. It had been with
him that I first made acquaintance; we were both engaged on journalistic
work, reporting, you know, on different papers--and we came across each
other once or twice in that way. He was a saturnine, queer-tempered
fellow, taciturn at times, and at other times possessed by a wry sense
of humour which made him excellent company, though it kept one in a
state of alert disquiet. He would say things with that particular twist
to them which made one look up, startled, wondering whether his remark
was really intended to be facetious or obscurely sinister. Thanks to
this ambiguity he had gained quite a reputation in Fleet Street. You can
imagine, therefore, that I was flattered when he singled me out; I
listened to all his remarks with a respect I was too proud to betray;
although I adopted an off-hand manner towards him, I didn't lose many
opportunities of letting the other fellows know, in a casual way, that I
had been practically given the run of his house; and I was never sorry
to be seen when we strolled off with his arm in mine.

"They lived, he and his wife, in a tiny house at the end of Cheyne
Walk. On misty evenings we used to sit, all three, on the sill of the
bow-window, watching the big barges float by, while our legs swung
dangling from the high s