flesh gleamed in the gaslight.

The look of surprise and pity which Philip bent upon this unclean apparition was startled into one of sudden fear and horror. In the very instant when these emotions struck him, they were reflected in the other's face. The man made a motion to run, but Philip clutched his arm, and he stood cowering and unresisting.

'You! Here in London?'

'Phil,' said the spectre imploringly, 'for God's sake help me. I didn't know it was you, when I followed you. I thought——' his voice trailed into silence.

'You have come to this?'

'Yes, Phil; this is what I've come to.' The cough took him here again, and tore him so that he was fain to lean against the shutters of a shop near at hand.

'Why do you come back here? Are you mad?'

'I am—almost. What could I do? I'm as safe here as I am anywhere. Who would know me? or, if they did, who would hurt a wretch like me? I haven't slept in a bed for weeks, Phil. I haven't eaten a morsel for three days. For God's sake! give me some money. I'll—I'll go away; I'll never trouble you again.'

'I'll give you all I can. But you must go away from London.'

Philip thrust his hand into his pocket and brought up all the pocket's contents. He took his keys and an unvalued trifle or two from the handful, and held the rest out towards his father. The old man shrunk from him with a terrible appeal and shamefaced gratitude which cut the son's heart like a knife.

'Where can I go to?'

'Anywhere out of London. You are not—safe here. Go away. Write to me here.' He thrust an envelope on which his name and address were written into the old man's dirty trembling hand. 'You must never come to see me. Promise me that.'

'I promise,' he said; and, thrusting the money and the envelope somewhere among his rags, stood silent for a while. 'I'm afraid,' he said, 'I acted very foolishly and very——'

Then his voice trailed away again.

'God help you!' said Philip with a choking voice.

'You'll shake hands, won't you, Phil? 'said the old man. Phil took the proffered hand. 'It's something,' said Bommaney the elder, clinging to him, 'to feel an honest man's hand again, God bless you, Phil!—God bless you!'

Philip stood silent, and the old man, with another shame-stricken glance upon him, moved away. His son watched him for a second or two, as he slunk, coughing and shivering, along the gleaming pavement, and then turned and went his own way heavily.

Bommaney senior, discerning the welcome beacon of a public-house, shuffled eagerly towards it, hugging beneath his rags the money his son had given him.

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Bommaney; if you please, sir.' He started at the sound of a voice which had been familiar to him for years. 'I should like a word with you, sir; if you please.'