“God—God bless you both!” he whispered. “It's all finished now for good, as I told you, but you are right, Paul. I—I ain't fit to have her yet. I'll stand by the bargain.” He moved blindly toward the door.
The pawnbroker interposed.
“Wait, Hawkins, old friend,” he said. “I'll go with you. You'll need some help back there in the tenement, some one to look after the things that are to be done.”
The cabman shook his head.
“Not to-night,” he said in a choked way. “Leave me alone to-night.”
He moved again toward the door, and this time Paul Veniza stepped aside, but, following, stood bareheaded in the doorway as the other clambered to his perch on the hansom cab.
Hawkins slapped his reins on the roof of the cab. The horse started slowly forward.
The drizzle had ceased; but the horse, left to his own initiative, was still wary of the wet pavements and moved at no greater pace than a walk. Hawkins drove with his coat collar still turned up and his chin on his breast.
And horse and man went aimlessly from street to street—and the night grew late.
And the cabman's hand reached tentatively, hesitantly, a great many times, toward a bulge in his coat pocket, and for a great many times was withdrawn as empty as it had set forth. And then, once, his fingers touched a glass bottle neck... and then, not his fingers, but his lips... and for a great many times.