parlour. A few more steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of dust,
sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! A few more
steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, Hubert had reached the rug
at the foot of the stairs. He hastened along, the passage. Mrs. Wilson was
a moment too late. His hand was on the street-door when she appeared at the
door of her parlour.

'Mr. Price, I want to speak to you before you go out. There has----'

'I can't wait--running to catch a train. You'll find a letter on my table.
It will explain.'

Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was
not until he had put two or three streets between him and Fitzroy Street
that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to
feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder.




III


Then he wandered, not knowing where he was going, still in the sensation of
his escape, a little amused, and yet with a shadow of fear upon his soul,
for he grew more and more conscious of the fact that he was homeless, if
not quite penniless. Suddenly he stopped walking. Night was thickening in
the street, and he had to decide where he would sleep. He could not afford
to pay more than five or six shillings a week for a room, and he thought of
Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where creditors would not be able to