Guy had not been settled in his new abode for more than three days when Hora set out in search of someone who would undertake the business. He took all his usual precautions in order to avoid identification, though he relied more upon the assumption of a new character than upon any physical disguise. He entered a train which carried him away to London's most beautiful possession, the Royal Gardens of Kew. He entered the gates a bright, alert personality. He had an appreciative eye for the beauties of the trees and the flowers, but he did not linger amongst them, seeking a retired spot amongst the trees in the wild portion of the demesne. When half an hour later he retraced his steps nothing but the curious limp in his gait would have hinted at his identity. The overcoat which he had carried on his arm was now worn on his back. Its threadbare seams and worn cuffs were an eloquent testimony of poverty. The sprucely folded umbrella had become baggy, and instead of carrying it on his arm he leaned heavily upon it. A pair of steel spectacles were fixed upon his nose. His hat had been exchanged for another much the worse for wear. His collar had been replaced by one of clerical cut. A Bible, much worn, was under his arm. He looked like a mild, inoffensive clergyman who had fallen upon evil days, or a curate who had never fallen upon good ones, and anyone who spared him a single glance would have been ready to stake a good round sum that the contents of the bag he carried consisted mainly of tracts. Returning to the railway station he asked in the mildest of voices for a ticket to Latimer Road, and bungled over counting the change while the people waiting behind him impatiently snorted at his clumsiness.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon for detaining you," he said when the coppers were safely put away in a shabby old purse. He was always authentic in his impersonations.
No one took the slightest heed of him when he reached the station to which he had booked, and, alighting, set his face in the direction of Notting Dale. He walked steadily on, turning now to the left now to the right again. Each street he entered seemed to worsen in some indefinable manner. The main road into which he had passed from the station had been merely one of London's characterless thoroughfares, with rows of struggling shops, each flaunting the banner of cheapness in the face of passers-by. A sign of a poor neighbourhood this, and off the main road the signs were more pronounced. The open doors, the women sitting at open windows, the babies on the stairs and the pavements, the voice of the coal hawker, were all unmistakable signs. Presently the dress of the women became more blowsy, the children dirtier, men were to be seen lolling from the windows and gathered in groups outside the doors of the public houses; when policemen were to be seen at all, they were in couples. Hora's face wore an air of positive benevolence. A boy of five or six years ran beside him with outstretched hand.
"Spare us a copper, guvnor?" he asked.
Hora paused. "I have no coppers to spare, my child," he remarked.
"I ain't had no breakfus," said the child.
Hora's eyes twinkled.
"I'm afraid you are not speaking the truth, my boy," he remarked blandly. "Still"—he opened his bag carefully and extracted therefrom a packet of sticky sweets and a bundle of tracts. "I don't expect you get many sweeties. Hold out your hand."
The youngster did as he was bidden. Hora counted four sugary lumps into the eager palm. "Never tell a lie, my boy," he said solemnly.
The child seemed unimpressed. "I say, is that all, guvnor?" he asked as Hora replaced the paper of sweets in his bag.