When, after many days, the man at the bottom of the ladder gets a few pounds in gold, the first temptation is to make a night of it. What? We are not money-grabbers. To-morrow for a new rig-out; to-morrow for the weary business of finding employment; to-night for joy and the wine-cup. When the morrow dawns the wine-cup still lingers in the brain--but the gold pieces--where are they? Gone as a dream--a splendid dream of the night. Thus, after a little sleep and a little slumber, poverty cometh again as a robber: and want as an armed man. "Don't let's talk about money spent," he said cheerfully. "Let's talk about the future. I'm right down at the bottom of the ladder, Alice. Help me up." If a man says that he is at the bottom of the ladder, he generally speaks the truth. It is one of those little things about which we are agreed not to tell lies. And when he asks to be helped up, he always speaks with sincerity. "I have no money of my own." "You've things that make money." His eyes fell on a bracelet lying on the table. Alice shook her finger at him. "Cousin Alfred," she said, "if you mean that I am going to give you my husband's presents for you to take to a pawnbroker, I will have you bundled out of the house. Now, tell me what you came for, before I ring the bell for the waiter." He began to cry. He really was underfed and very miserable. "Oh! she's got a hard heart--and all I want is forty pounds--for the good will and stock-in-trade of a tobacconist--to become a credit to the family." "I have no money of my own," Alice repeated. "If that is all you have to say, go away. My husband may come back at any moment." "He won't. I watched. He's gone into the City on the top of a 'bus. With all his money, rides outside a 'bus. He's gone, and I mean, Alice----" Molly rose and put down her novel. Then she advanced and seized the man, taking a combined handful of shirt-collar and coat-collar, which she twisted in her strong hand. He spread out his legs and hands; he struggled; the grip tightened; he rolled over; the coat-collar came off in her hand. "Get up and go, you miserable creature!" she cried. He rose slowly. "Go!" said Molly. "No coat-collar would stand such treatment," he said. "Pay me for the damage you have done to my wardrobe." "Give him a shilling, Molly, and let him go." "Wait a minute--wait a minute. Oh, don't be violent, Alice! I've got a secret. If you knew it, you'd give me money. I'll sell it for forty pounds." "Sell it to my husband." He got up feeling for his injured coat-collar. "This girl's so impetuous. May I sit down again?" "No," said Molly. "Stand. If you don't tell your secret in two minutes, out you go." "It's about your marriage, Alice. You were married about twenty-six years ago--it was in 1871, I remember. You married a play-acting fellow--Anthony by name----" "That's no secret." "Which wasn't his real name, but his theatrical name. His real name was Woodroffe." "That is no secret, either."