inded her simply. "If I answer you as an
outsider, a passer-by--mind, though, one who thinks about men and
women--I should say try one of her lesser sins, one of the sins that
leaves you clean. Steal, for instance."

"And go to prison!" she protested angrily. "How much better off would you
be there, I wonder, and what about when you came out? Pooh! Pay your bill
and let's get out of this."

He obeyed, and they made their way into the crowded street. He paused for
a moment on the pavement. The pleasure swirl was creeping a little into
his veins.

"Would you like to go to a theatre?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"You do as you like. I'm going home. You needn't bother about coming with
me, either."

"Don't be foolish," he protested. "I only mentioned a theatre for your
sake. Come along."

They walked down Broadway and turned into their own street. They entered
the tenement building together and stepped into the lift. She held out
her hand a little abruptly.

"Good night!"

"Good night!" he answered. "You get out first, don't you? I'll polish
that stuff up to-night, the first part of it, so that you can get on with
the typing."

Some half-developed fear which had been troubling her during the walk
home, seemed to have passed. Her face cleared.

"Don't think I am ungrateful," she begged, as the lift stopped. "I
haven't had a good time like this for many months. Thank you, Mr. Ware,
and good night!"

She stepped through the iron gates on to her own floor, and Philip swung
up to his rooms. Somehow, he entered almost light-heartedly. The roar of
the city below was no longer provocative. He felt as though he had
stretched out a hand towards it, as though he were in the way of becoming
one of its children.

CHAPTER III

A few nights later Philip awoke suddenly to find himself in a cold sweat,
face to face with all the horrors of an excited imagination. Once more he
felt his hand greedy for the soft flesh of the man he hated, tearing its
way through the stiff collar, felt the demoniacal strength shooting down
his arm, the fever at his finger tips. He saw the terrified face of his
victim, a strong man but impotent in his grasp; heard the splash of the
turgid waters; saw himself, his lust for vengeance unsatisfied, peering
downwards through the dim and murky gloom. It was not only a physical
nightmare which seized him. His brain, too, was his accuser. He saw with
a hideous clarity that even the excuse of m