There came a day when he had lunched lightly on his last six collars—or, to speak with pedantic accuracy, on the meal which had been provided with the money which had been acquired by the sale of those six collars. In spite of this banquet, by eight o'clock in the evening he felt hungry again, and our sentiments yield to our necessities. He therefore went out to dispose of his watch and chain. He went through Regent's Park and was stopped by a man whose appearance was against him. He looked in so many directions at once that anybody else would have mistrusted him.
"Could you tell us the time, Gov'nor?" said the man.
Alfred produced his watch. The man snatched it and the chain therewith, and ran. He did not run remarkably well. It would have been perfectly easy for Alfred Simpson to have overtaken him and to have given him into custody. But such an act would have been inconsistent with the rest of his career. So he gave up the idea of dinner and sat on the Embankment.
On the following day he remained in the parks until closing time and then sat on the Embankment again.
And the next night he dreamed that he died on the Embankment.
And after death Alfred Simpson opened his eyes and saw that he was in a large and very plainly furnished room. He sat on a hard bench, not unlike that which had been his bed on the Embankment, and many others, mostly of villainous appearance, sat there also.
"I say," said Alfred Simpson to the grey-haired reprobate next to him. "This isn't Heaven, is it?"
The reprobate chuckled. "Not exactly," he said.
"Then what is it?"
"It's the waiting-room for lost souls before they take their trial."