He hesitated for a moment. His own name. A name to be kept—to live and die under—the hall mark of his new identity. How poor his imagination was. Never an inspiration, and she was watching him. There was so much in a name, and he must find one swiftly, for Mr. Douglas Guest was dead.
"My name is Jesson," he said—"Douglas Jesson."
CHAPTER V
HOW THE ADDRESS WAS LOST
And now the end of that journey, never altogether forgotten by either of them, was close at hand. Tunnels became more frequent, the green fields gave way to an interminable waste of houses, the gloom of the autumn afternoon was deepened. The speed of the train decreased, the heart of Douglas Jesson beat fast with anticipation. For now indeed he was near the end of his journey, the beginning of his new life. What matter that the outlook from where he sat was dreary enough. Beyond, there was a glow in the sky; beyond was an undiscovered world. He was young, and he came fresh to the fight. The woman who watched him wondered.
"Will you tell me," she said, "now that you are in London, what will you do? You have money perhaps, or will you work?"
"Money," he laughed, gaily at first, but with a chill shiver immediately afterwards. Yes, he had money. For the moment he had forgotten it.
"I have a small sum," he said, "just sufficient to last me until I begin to earn some."
"And you will earn money—how?"
"With my pen, I hope," he answered simply. "I have sent several stories to the Ibex. One they accepted, but it has not appeared yet."