ngth would
make the coming winter a hard time for him, worse probably than the
last. Biffen, responding in person to the summons, found him in bed,
waited upon by a gaunt, dry, sententious woman of sixty--not the
landlady, but a lodger who was glad to earn one meal a day by any means
that offered.

'It wouldn't be very nice to die here, would it?' said the sufferer,
with a laugh which was cut short by a cough. 'One would like a
comfortable room, at least. Why, I don't know. I dreamt last night that
I was in a ship that had struck something and was going down; and it
wasn't the thought of death that most disturbed me, but a horror of
being plunged in the icy water. In fact, I have had just the same
feeling on shipboard. I remember waking up midway between Corfu and
Brindisi, on that shaky tub of a Greek boat; we were rolling a good
deal, and I heard a sort of alarmed rush and shouting up on deck. It
was so warm and comfortable in the berth, and I thought with intolerable
horror of the possibility of sousing into the black depths.'

'Don't talk, my boy,' advised Biffen. 'Let me read you the new chapter
of "Mr Bailey." It may induce a refreshing slumber.'

Reardon was away from his duties for a week; he returned to them with a
feeling of extreme shakiness, an indisposition to exert himself, and
a complete disregard of the course that events were taking. It was
fortunate that he had kept aside that small store of money designed
for emergencies; he was able to draw on it now to pay his doctor, and
provide himself with better nourishment than usual. He purchased new
boots, too, and some articles of warm clothing of which he stood in
need--an alarming outlay.

A change had come over him; he was no longer rendered miserable by
thoughts of Amy--seldom, indeed, turned his mind to her at all.
His secretaryship at Croydon was a haven within view; the income of
seventy-five pounds (the other half to go to his wife) would support him
luxuriously, and for anything beyond that he seemed to care little. Next
Sunday he was to go over to Croydon and see the institution.

One evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street and
greeted his friend with more show of light-heartedness than he had been
capable of for at least two years.

'I have been as nearly as possible a happy man all to-day,' he said,
when his pipe was well lit. 'Partly the sunshine, I suppose. There's
no saying if the mood will last, but if it does all i