Not daring to approach Patience for necessary money to return to London (for this was a time for haste, and no mere walking methods would serve), he decided that he would get something from Moira; that was legitimate, because, in a sense, he was working for her, and for her future happiness. He waited until he could find her alone in the garden; he pitched a tale of a sudden chance that had come to him in London--a chance for honest work not to be missed. She, for her part, saw only a chance of getting rid of a disagreeable tenant cheaply; she gave him the money at once. He got back to London, but did not go at once in search of Jimmy; with the little extra money in his pocket, and with the certainty, as he felt, of much more to follow, he determined that he would find a comfortable spot wherein to smoke many pipes, and to drink strong waters, and to while away an hour or two. So that it was quite late in the afternoon when he got to Jimmy's rooms. The porter told him, with a strange sort of shrug, that Mr. Larrance was at home; it seemed, as the man somewhat disdainfully put it, that Mr. Larrance was generally at home. Not understanding, Anthony Ditchburn climbed the stairs, and knocked at the door; after an extraordinary delay the door was opened, and Jimmy stood there, blinking out at him. A new Jimmy. A Jimmy with no smartness about him, as it seemed in that first casual glance--a reckless-looking Jimmy, with unkempt hair and unbrushed clothes; moreover, a Jimmy who swayed a little as he stood. "Good-afternoon, my dear friend," said Anthony, hesitating on the landing. "It is long since I have seen you. I trust you are well." "No--I'm not; but that doesn't concern you," retorted Jimmy. "You can come in if you like." It seemed a new sort of room to which Anthony was introduced--not the old hard-working place he had known before. The desk was an untidy wilderness of papers--and yet not the untidy wilderness of the man who works. This was the room of a drone; of a man who slept the days away, and had no future to look to. Anthony Ditchburn saw more than ever, as he thought, that this was an unhappy story which he was to set right; on the one side of the picture--the woman who wept, and who wrote letters that were never sent; on the other side--the man who sat here, gloomy and miserable, and probably longing for the woman he loved and was too proud to approach. This was going to be quite an easy matter, Anthony thought--and the easy reward to follow. Jimmy had gone back into his rooms, and had dropped in a listless attitude into a chair. Anthony Ditchburn, glancing about, saw a bottle and glass on the table, and smacked his lips audibly. The younger man turned towards him, and after looking at him sourly for a moment, nodded at the bottle. "You'll find a glass over there; help yourself," he said. Anthony lost no time in doing so; he mixed a generous measure, and raised his glass to his host. "To your good fortune!" he exclaimed.