hould he do? "Letter follows." Drink, and wait? Go to Bury Street?
No. Drink! Enjoy himself!

He laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out, walking furiously at
first, then slower and slower, for his head began to whirl, and, taking
a cab, was driven to a restaurant in Soho. He had eaten nothing but a
biscuit since his breakfast, always a small matter, and ordered soup and
a flask of their best Chianti--solids he could not face. More than two
hours he sat, white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now
and then grinning and flourishing his fingers, to the amusement and
sometimes the alarm of those sitting near. But for being known there,
he would have been regarded with suspicion. About half-past nine, there
being no more wine, he got up, put a piece of gold on the table, and
went out without waiting for his change.

In the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight was not quite gone.
He walked unsteadily, toward Piccadilly. A girl of the town passed and
looked up at him. Staring hard, he hooked his arm in hers without a
word; it steadied him, and they walked on thus together. Suddenly he
said:

"Well, girl, are you happy?" The girl stopped and tried to disengage her
arm; a rather frightened look had come into her dark-eyed powdered face.
Fiorsen laughed, and held it firm. "When the unhappy meet, they walk
together. Come on! You are just a little like my wife. Will you have a
drink?"

The girl shook her head, and, with a sudden movement, slipped her arm
out of this madman's and dived away like a swallow through the pavement
traffic. Fiorsen stood still and laughed with his head thrown back. The
second time to-day. SHE had slipped from his grasp. Passers looked
at him, amazed. The ugly devils! And with a grimace, he turned out
of Piccadilly, past St. James's Church, making for Bury Street. They
wouldn't let him in, of course--not they! But he would look at the
windows; they had flower-boxes--flower-boxes! And, suddenly, he groaned
aloud--he had thought of Gyp's figure busy among the flowers at home.
Missing the right turning, he came in at the bottom of the street.
A fiddler in the gutter was scraping away on an old violin. Fiorsen
stopped to listen. Poor devil! "Pagliacci!" Going up to the man--dark,
lame, very shabby, he took out some silver, and put his other hand on
the man's shoulder.

"Brother," he said, "lend me your fiddle. Here's money for you. Come;
lend it to me. I am a great violinist."

"V