It was now four o'clock in the afternoon; and Greenwood found himself retracing his way over Blackfriars' Bridge, without knowing whither he was going—or without even having any place to go to.
He was literally houseless—homeless!
His few shirts and other necessaries were left behind at the lodging which had just been closed against him; and a few halfpence in his pocket, besides the garments upon his back, were all his worldly possessions.
"And has it come to this?" he thought within himself, as he hurried over the bridge, not noticing the curiosity excited on the part of the crowd by his strange looks and wildness of manner: "has it come to this at length? Homeless—and a beggar!—a wretched wanderer in this great city where I once rode in my carriage! Oh! my God—I deserve it all!"
And he hurried franticly along—hell raging in his bosom.
At length it suddenly struck him that he was gesticulating violently in the open street and in the broad day-light; and he was overwhelmed with a sense of deep shame and profound humiliation.
He rushed across Bridge Street, with the intention of plunging into one of those lanes leading towards Whitefriars; when a cry of alarm resounded in his ears—and in another moment he was knocked down by a cabriolet that was driving furiously along.
The wheel passed over his right leg; and a groan of agony escaped him.
The vehicle instantly stopped: the livery servant behind sprang to the ground; and, with the aid of a policeman who came up to the spot the instant the accident occurred, the domestic raised Greenwood from the pavement.
But an agonising cry, wrung from him by the excruciating pain which he felt in his right leg, showed that he was seriously injured; and the policeman said, "We must take him to the hospital."