After a dinner the excellence of which was in nowise diminished by lack of appreciation on his part, he undertook a pilgrimage of curiosity to which he had previously determined to devote the evening.
He wondered unceasingly to whom he was indebted for the good meals he had enjoyed in prison. Now he would endeavor to find out.
A hansom took him to Holloway, but the first efforts of the driver failed to discover the whereabouts of the "Royal Star Hotel."
At last Philip recollected the warder's added direction—"opposite."
He dismissed the cab and walked to the prison entrance. Directly in front he saw a small restaurant called the "Star." Its titular embellishments were due to the warder's gift of humor.
He entered. A woman was knitting at a cash desk.
"Until yesterday," he said, "you sent food regularly to a boy named Anson, who was confined in the prison——"
"Yes," interrupted the lady. "I on'y heard this mornin' that he was let out."
"Would you mind telling me who paid the bill? I suppose it was paid?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, it was overpaid," was the reply. "You see, the pore lad was remanded for a week, an' Mr. Judd, a man 'oo lives in the Farringdon Road, kem 'ere an' arranged for 'is week's board. Hav' ye heard wot 'appened to 'im?"