third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A
pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of
the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three more to
Torpenhow's room. The well of the staircase disappeared into darkness,
pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking and doors
slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom.

'Do they give you a free hand here?' said Dick, cautiously. He was
Ishmael enough to know the value of liberty.

'Anything you like; latch-keys and license unlimited. We are permanent
tenants for the most part here. 'Tisn't a place I would recommend for a
Young Men's Christian Association, but it will serve. I took these rooms
for you when I wired.'

'You're a great deal too kind, old man.'

'You didn't suppose you were going away from me, did you?' Torpenhow
put his hand on Dick's shoulder, and the two walked up and down the
room, henceforward to be called the studio, in sweet and silent
communion. They heard rapping at Torpenhow's door. 'That's some
ruffian come up for a drink,' said Torpenhow; and he raised his voice
cheerily. There entered no one more ruffianly than a portly middle-aged
gentleman in a satin-faced frockcoat. His lips were parted and pale, and
there were deep pouches under the eyes.

'Weak heart,' said Dick to himself, and, as he shook hands, 'very weak
heart. His pulse is shaking his fingers.'

The man introduced himself as the head of the Central Southern