In the morning, when he came out to his breakfast, he discovered the decanter empty, and the room thick with the fumes of stale tobacco; Anthony had apparently been smoking and drinking all night. He blinked red eyes at Charlie, and smacked his dry lips, and watched the preparations for breakfast; he looked more shabby and unkempt than ever in the morning light. He sat down unbidden with his unwilling host; ate substantially, and had almost to be turned out of the place by force at last. But he went finally, and Charlie congratulated himself on the fact that he had got rid of him. He had yet to learn that Anthony Ditchburn could stick like the proverbial leech, and could bleed his victim as voraciously. He came again and again; was to be found, miserably cold, upon the stairs at unseasonable hours; even when sent away he left behind him the whining threat that he would be found dead in the street, and that his blood would be upon the head of Charlie Purdue. The persecution became so great at last that it roused Charlie to do that which he had been half-shamefacedly contemplating for some time. So that in the end it may be said that this miserable whining creature, with his tales of wrongs done him, and benefits withheld, became in a sense the pivot round which the tragedy was to revolve. Charlie came up one evening to the lamp-lit room where Moira and Patience were seated; he was bubbling over with excitement and suppressed laughter. As he came in Moira noted something about him, and spoke of it at once. "Why, Charlie--where's your hat?" she asked. Charlie chuckled. "It's downstairs," he said. The two women, young and old, turned to look at him; Moira breathlessly repeated the word. "Downstairs?" "Yes; I thought I should surprise you," exclaimed Charlie. "I've taken the two empty rooms below; father's been hammering it into me ever so long--thought the other place wasn't respectable. I did it quietly, so as to surprise you; I moved in my books and things this afternoon. Now you'll have to look after me, Moira, and see that I work." They were silent; Moira had stolen a glance at Patience, and was striving perhaps to hide the feeling of exultation that made her heart beat faster, and brought a flush to her pale face. There had swept over her the thought that Charlie would be in this very house--cheerful, light-hearted, happy-go-lucky Charlie; that he could run upstairs at any moment--that she could go down to him! No longer would she be tied to these rooms, with Patience for company; half the house would be practically hers, because Charlie lived below. "I don't know as you'll find it comfortable," said Patience, after a somewhat awkward pause. "We're very quiet people here." "That'll just suit me," said Charlie, with a grin. "You don't know how quiet I can be when I try. Well, Moira"--he turned towards the girl a little anxiously--"aren't you glad?" "Yes--I'm very glad," she replied, afraid almost to think how glad she was.