He took another hansom and told the man to drive him as far as the Chelsea Embankment. It took about half an hour to get there. He got out just by the Embankment, paid the driver his fare and walked slowly on, bearing straight to his right all the time. By-and-by he found himself, still almost within sight of the Embankment, but in a low part of Chelsea. He went down several by-streets, being remarked by those who glanced at him by reason of his height and a certain uprightness of carriage which, try as he would, he could never get rid of. It was Saturday night, near midnight, and the place was all alive—barrows in the streets, hawkers everywhere, people buying and selling, children screaming, women arguing and gesticulating, good, hard-worked housewives hurrying home with well-laden baskets, drunken men staggering across the streets. Rowton passed quickly through their midst. The place smelt horribly. The air was heavy with the odours of stale fish and rotting vegetables. “Contrasts,” muttered the man to himself. “Rowton Heights last night, Nance in her silver-grey dress, the old ancestral home—all the ‘noblesse oblige’ of long descent surrounding me and tingling in my veins! To-night, the slums, and I no stranger in them!” He muttered an oath which scarcely reached his lips, but filled his heart with intolerable bitterness. He left the glaring street with all its light and noise, and turned abruptly down a dark passage. The next moment he had knocked with his knuckles in a peculiar way on a certain door. The door was cautiously opened by a girl in a dirty dress with a towzled fringe reaching to her eyebrows. “Who is there?” she asked. “Silver,” was the reply. “Oh! Silver, thank Heaven you have come,” she answered. “Hush! don’t speak so loud,” said Rowton in a low voice. “How are you, Sophy—pain in the back any better?” “No, sir, I suffers awful still,” answered the poor slavey. “Glad you are back, sir; don’t think I can stay much longer.” “Oh! yes, you can—here is a sovereign to put in your pocket.” “Bless you, sir, bless you, Silver,” the girl murmured as she stifled back a sob. She slipped the coin into her mouth for greater safety, and abruptly turned to walk upstairs. “Are they in the old rooms?” asked Rowton. “Yes, sir, ten of ’em strong.” “Then you need not come. I can find my own way.” He bounded past her three steps at a time, opened a door without knocking and found himself in a long low room, which was now reeking with tobacco smoke and the fumes of whisky. Several men were stationed about the room, some sitting, some standing, some were smoking short pipes, some indulging in cigars, some were doing neither. There was a certain expectancy about all their faces, and when they saw Rowton it was more than evident that this expectancy was realised. They welcomed him with cheers; said, “Hullo, Silver, glad to see _you_ back,” and motioned him forward into their midst. CHAPTER XIII. LONG JOHN.