He knew more and more about it; he knew now what it was like, and he saw its eyes and he sometimes could picture its grey scaly back with churches and theatres and government buildings and the little houses of Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones perched upon it--and the noises that it made now were so many and so threatening that he never slept at all. Then he began to run, shouting, down Piccadilly, so they put him--very reluctantly--into a nice Private Asylum, and there he died, screaming. This story is a prologue to Peter's life in London.... The story struck his fancy; he thought of it sometimes. II On a late stormy afternoon in November, 1895, Peter finished his book, “Reuben Hallard.” It had been raining all day, and now the windows were blurred and the sea of shining roofs that stretched into the mist emphasised the dark and gloom of the heavy overhanging sky. Peter's little room was very cold, but his body was burning--he was in a state of overpowering excitement; his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold his pen ... “So died Reuben Hallard, a fool and a gentleman”--and then “Finis” with a hard straight line underneath it.... He had been working at it for three years, and he had been in London seven. He walked up and down his little room, he was so hot that he flung up his window and leaned out and let the rain, that was coming down fiercely now, lash his face. Mud! London was full of mud. He could see it, he fancied, gathering in thick brown layers upon the pavement, shining and glistening as it mounted, slipping in streams into the gutter, sweeping about the foundations of the houses, climbing perhaps, one day, to the very windows. That was London. And yet he loved it, London and its dirt and darkness. Had he not written “Reuben Hallard” here! Had the place not taken him into its arms, given him books and leisure out of its hospitality, treated him kindly during these years so that they had fled like an instant of time, and here he was, Peter Westcott, aged twenty-five, with a book written, four friends made, and the best health possible to man. The book was “Reuben Hallard,” the friends were Mrs. Brockett, Mr. Zanti, Herr Gottfried, and Norah Monogue, and for his health one had only to look at him! “So died Reuben Hallard, a fool and a gentleman!” His excitement was tremendous; his cheeks were flaming, his eyes glittering, his heart beating. Here was a book written!--so many pages covered with so much writing, his claim to be somebody, to have done something, justified and, most wonderful of all, live, exciting people created by him, Peter Westcott. He did not think now of publication, of money, of fame--only, after sharing for three years in the trials and adventures of dear, beloved souls, now, suddenly, he emerged cold, breathless ... alone ... into the world again.