n horse, whose sun
has set, stands with drooped head, the hollows in his neck showing under
his straggling mane. And suddenly, evidently quite oblivious that he had
any audience, he spoke:

"O Great Universe, I am an old man of a faint spirit, with no singleness
of purpose. Help me to write on--help me to write a book such as the
world has never seen!"

A dead silence followed that strange prayer; then Bianca, with tears
rolling down her face, got up and rushed out of the room.

Mr. Stone came to himself. His mute, white face had suddenly grown
scared and pink. He looked at Hilary.

"I fear that I forgot myself. Have I said anything peculiar?"

Not feeling certain of his voice, Hilary shook his head, and he, too,
moved towards the door.

CHAPTER XXIV

SHADOWLAND

"Each of us has a shadow in those places--in those streets."

That saying of Mr. Stone's, which--like so many of his sayings--had
travelled forth to beat the air, might have seemed, even "in those
days," not altogether without meaning to anyone who looked into the room
of Mr. Joshua Creed in Hound Street.

This aged butler lay in bed waiting for the inevitable striking of
a small alarum clock placed in the very centre of his mantelpiece.
Flanking that round and ruthless arbiter, which drove him day by day to
stand up on feet whose time had come to rest, were the effigies of his
past triumphs. On the one hand, in a papier-mache frame, slightly tinged
with smuts, stood a portrait of the "Honorable Bateson," in the uniform
of his Yeomanry. Creed's former master's face wore that dare-devil look
with which he had been wont to say: "D---n it, Creed! lend me a pound.
I've got no money!" On the other hand, in a green frame which had once
been plush, and covered by a glass with a crack in the left-hand corner,
was a portrait of the Dowager Countess of Glengower, as this former
mistress of his appeared, conceived by the local photographer, laying
the foundation-stone of the local almshouse. During the wreck of
Creed's career, which, following on a lengthy illness, had preceded his
salvation by the Westminster Gazette, these two household gods had lain
at the bottom of an old tin trunk, in the possession of the keeper of a
lodging-house, waiting to be bailed out. The "Honorable Bateson" was now
dead, nor had he paid as yet the pounds he had borrowed. Lady Glengower,
too, was in heaven, remembering that she had forgotten all her servants
in her will. He