“You can get out of Chichester as quick as you like,” said the officer. “Are you looking for a bed?” “Yes, sir.” “Why don’t you try the casual ward at the workhouse?” “They’re full up, sir.” “That’s a lie,” said the officer. “Now understand, if I see you again I’ll arrest you!” Muttering something to himself, the squalid figure moved on toward the Arundel Road, his shoulders hunched, his hands hidden in the depths of his pockets. Out of sight of the policeman, he turned abruptly to the right and accelerated his pace. He was making for Jack Knebworth’s house. The director heard the knock, opened the door and stood aghast at the unexpected character of the caller. “What do you want, bo’?” he asked. “Mr. Brixan come back?” “No, he hasn’t come back. You’d better give me that letter. I’ll get in touch with him by ’phone.” The tramp grinned and shook his head. “No, you don’t. I want to see Brixan.” “Well, you won’t see him here to-night,” said Jack. And then, suspiciously: “My idea is that you don’t want to see him at all, and that you’re hanging around for some other purpose.” The tramp did not reply. He was whistling softly a distorted passage from the “Indian Love Lyrics,” and all the time his right foot was beating the time. “He’s in a bad way, is old Brixan,” he said, and there was a certain amount of pleasure in his voice that annoyed Knebworth. “What do you know about him?” “I know he’s in bad with headquarters—that’s what I know,” said the tramp. “He couldn’t find where the letters went to: that’s the trouble with him. But _I_ know.” “Is that what you want to see him about?” The man nodded vigorously. “I know,” he said again. “I could tell him something if he was here, but he ain’t here.” “If you know he isn’t here,” asked the exasperated Jack, “why in blazes do you come?” “Because the police are chivvying me, that’s why. A copper down on the market-place is going to pinch me next time he sees me. So I thought I’d come up to fill in the time, that’s what!” Jack stared at him. “You’ve got a nerve,” he said in awe-stricken tones. “And now you’ve filled in your time and I’ve entertained you, you can get! Do you want anything to eat?” “Not me,” said the tramp. “I live on the fat of the land, I do!” His shrill Cockney voice was getting on Jack’s nerves. “Well, good night,” he said shortly, and closed the door on his unprepossessing visitor. The tramp waited for quite a long time before he made any move. Then, from the interior of his cap, he took a cigarette and lit it before he shuffled back the way he had come, making a long detour to avoid the centre of the town, where the unfriendly policeman was on duty. A church clock was striking a quarter past ten when he reached the corner of the Arundel Road, and, throwing away his cigarette, moved into the shadow of the fence and waited.