om life in them, and they seem so much more natural."

"And who," I asked, "is Mr. Gorman? I do not recognize the name."

"Pal of mine," Arthur answered easily. "I don't bring him here because
he's a bit loud for you chaps. Writes stories for no end of papers.
_Illustrated Bits_ and the _Cigarette Journal_ print anything he cares
to send. I thought perhaps you'd know the name."

Mabane went off into a peal of laughter behind his canvas. The boy
remained imperturbable.

"Of course, I'm not comparing his work with Arnold's," he declared.
"Arnold's stuff is no end better, of course. But, after all, the chap's
got common-sense. If they want me to draw a motor I go and sit down in
front of it. If Arnold wants to write of real things, real men and
women, you know, he ought to go out and look for them. If he sits here
and just imagines them, how can he be sure that they are the real thing?
See what I mean?"

There was a short silence. Arthur was swinging his long legs backwards
and forwards, and whistling softly to himself. I looked at him for a
moment curiously. The words of an ancient proverb flitted through my
brain.

"Arthur," I declared solemnly, laying down my pen, "you are a prophet in
disguise, the prophet sent to lift the curtain which is before my eyes.
Which way shall I go to find these real men and real women, to look upon
these tragic happenings? For Heaven's sake direct me. Where, for
instance, does Mr. Gorman go?"

Arthur swung himself off, laughing.

"Gorman goes everywhere," he answered. "If I were you I should try one
of the big railway stations. So long!"

I rose to my feet, and taking down my hat commenced to brush it. Mabane
looked up from his work.

"Where are you off to, Arnold?" he asked.

Some curious instinct or power of divination might indeed have given me
a passing glimpse of the things which lay beyond, through the portals of
that day, for I answered him seriously enough--even gravely.

"The prophet has spoken," I said. "I must obey! I shall start with
Charing Cross."

CHAPTER II

Why the man should have spoken to me at all I could not tell. Yet it is
certain that I heard his simple and courteous inquiry with a thrill of
pleasure, not unmixed with excitement. From the first moment of my
arrival upon the platform I had singled him out, the only interesting
figure in a crowd of nonentities. Perhaps I had lingered a little too
closely by his side, had manifested more curiosi