"Well, he's like this young fellow Dick. Also, he's like that other chap—Sir Humphrey—more like him than the other. He's grey now, and thin, cheeks sunk in, and fingers like bits of glass. I told him who I was, but he only half understood. He won't desert any more women, I reckon. They've got stories about him at the Hospital—the boys there pick up everything. No, Alice. I don't think it would make this fellow they call Dick any happier to see his father. I'll go again. Don't think of him any more, my dear. Remember what the doctor said. Keep quiet."
[CHAPTER XIII.]
A MIDNIGHT WALK.
"Let me walk home with you," said Dick. "It is a fine night, and we can walk."
They left the hotel, and turned northwards across Trafalgar Square.
"The pale, worn face of that poor woman haunts me, Molly. It is a strange adventure."
"You will love her, Dick, as much as I do. But there is that trouble behind, whatever it is, that she has not yet told me."
Dick looked up and straightened himself. They were in the crowd—the crowd infect and horrible at the top of the Haymarket.
"It is really peaceful night," he said. "The air just here is corrupt with voices, and there are shapes about that mock the peace of darkness; but it is really peaceful night."