“I paid something on account of Mackary’s bill to-day--with a bad sovereign. But that isn’t all. I picked that picture up in a saleroom--put it under my arm and walked away, you know. I believe it is a ‘Simms.’” He looked gloatingly at a dark, little oil on the wall. “And I--I stole ten pounds from my young nephew. He gave it me to buy a bicycle--and I’ve spent every penny.” “These confidences are becoming oppressive,” I said. “So long as you restricted yourself to not putting in the pool, it didn’t matter so much. Cheating at cards may be one form of moral protest. Stealing books and pictures is simply an overflow of artistic enthusiasm. But passing bad sovereigns and spending other people’s money is reprehensible--to say nothing of its being idiotic. You’ll get found out, arrested, ruined. My dear fellow, you are suffering from a severe attack of crime. Crime is merely an infectious disease, like the measles; all sensible people admit that nowadays. Some of us have it; some escape. Occasionally there is an epidemic--look what a run there often is in a certain form of murder. You must see a doctor. It seems to me that you have only developed the attack since Hopkins----” He stopped me with an eager wave of his unsteady hand. “Hopkins,” he began excitedly, “Hopkins! Good Heavens!”--he stopped, then concluded calmly, with a sort of mechanical cordiality toward the other man--“Hopkins is a very good fellow.” A couple of mornings later I met him in the square. He had developed a peculiar walk; several men had commented on it. He seemed to be painfully trying to keep step with someone. Occasionally he threw a hunted, conciliating look over his shoulder. Sometimes he started off in a spasmodic trot, and then pulled up as if it were no use to struggle, and tried to keep step again. He meant to pass me with a nod, but I stepped in front of him and took his hand. He looked round, started, stared across the square, and then said: “Excuse me for not having introduced you to Hopkins. Don’t think it strange of him to make off like that. He’s a student, you see, very retiring and preoccupied.” “Hopkins!” “Yes, there he goes--that man with a pronounced stoop, a Norfolk jacket, and a soft hat.” The square was absolutely empty except for Orchard and me. There was no man with a stoop and a Norfolk jacket anywhere in sight; there never had been. Orchard, with his halting, timid walk, had crossed the square alone, had come out of his own doorway alone. Absolutely alone. I had watched him. I had never taken my eyes off him, from first to last. I took his arm. “Come over to No. 2 and see Harrowsmith,” I entreated. “You don’t look well. He’ll give you a tonic. Perhaps you’re smoking too much--don’t believe in a pipe myself. There isn’t half so much harm in a mild cigarette.”