“The boy is quite right,” said Brent to himself. “No other man in all Christendom is cursed as I am. What real aid or sympathy could I get even if I sought it?” This to silence the suggestion which had risen in his mind that he should sacrifice even the privacy of life which he had guarded so jealously, in order to gain the wisest counsel for the solution of his momentous problem. They walked up to the Strand, these two, and the odd companionship attracted some attention in the crowded thoroughfare. Brent noticed that the lad looked with considerable interest into the window of a cheap restaurant, and it prompted the question, “Are you often hungry, youngster?” “Oh, yes, ’most always, but I had a pretty good feed this morning,” was the matter-of-fact reply. “Let’s see how much you can eat now,” said Brent with some interest, turning back to the restaurant. “Just what I was a-goin’ to do, sir, as soon as you had no more use for me,” responded the boy with enthusiasm, and quickly added--“but I’ll pay for it, and stand treat for you, too, please, sir.” Brent laughed, but said nothing, and the boy, assuming an air of supreme importance, led the way to an unoccupied table far down the narrow room. “Sit here, sir,” said he, pulling out a chair for his guest and holding out his hand for Brent’s silk tile, which he put upon a peg by dint of climbing upon another chair to do it. “Bring a meenoo,” he commanded grandiloquently of a grinning waiter who came up. He handed the greasy slip of paper to Brent and observed confidentially: “Don’t mind the expense, sir, we’ll have a big feed,” and the small host’s eyes sparkled in anticipation. Brent tried hard to preserve his gravity, as he explained that he wasn’t very hungry, because he had eaten heartily in the afternoon. The boy seized the bill of fare and examined it critically. The most expensive dishes it boasted cost ninepence, and the variety was extremely limited. “Haven’t you got any jugged hare, or any roast beef an’ Yorkshire pudding?” inquired the ragged gourmand with some scorn. “No, we don’t have joints and hot dishes ready in the evening, but we can cook you a good steak or cutlets,” said the waiter. “Well, bring us some cutlets and steak and potatoes--and bacon--and sausages--and fried onions--and bread and butter--and--and tea, large cups--and some bath-buns--and cheese,” running his eye rapidly down the list. “That’s all now--oh, I say,” in sudden inspiration, “how much is a bottle of fizz?” “Fizz?” “Yes, the bubbly stuff that toffs drink.” “Oh, champagne, do you mean? We haven’t any, but I can send out for a bottle.” Brent thought it time to interfere. He didn’t want any fizz, really, he explained in answer to the incredulous look in the boy’s bright eyes. “Beer, then?”