The grey light of a hopeless May dawn was just beginning to outline the towers and spires of Westminster against the sky when Quixtus found himself by the Westminster Hospital. He was damp and chill, somewhat depressed. The thrill of adventure had passed away, leaving disappointment and a little disillusion in its place. He was also physically fatigued, and his shoulders and feet ached. One ghostly hansom-cab stood on the rank, the horse drooping its dejected head into a lean nosebag, the driver asleep inside. Quixtus resolved to arouse the man from his slumbers, and, abandoning the pursuit of evil for the night, drive home to Russell Square. But as he was crossing the road towards the vehicle, a miserable object, starting up from the earth, ran by his side and addressed him in a voice so hoarse that it scarcely rose above a whisper. “For Gord’s sake, guv’nor, spare a poor man a copper or two. I’ve not tasted food for twenty-four hours.” Quixtus stopped, his instinctive fingers diving into his pence-pocket. Suddenly an idea struck him. “You must have led a very evil life,” said he, “to have come to this stage of destitution.” “Whatcher gettin’ at?” growled the applicant, one eye fixed suspiciously on Quixtus’s face, the other on the fumbling hand. “I’m not going to preach to you—far from it,” said Quixtus; “but I should like to know. You must have seen a great deal of wickedness in your time.” “If you arsk me,” opined the man, “there’s nothing but wickedness in this blankety blank world.” He did not say “blankety blank,” but used other and more lurid epithets which, though they were not exactly the ones that Quixtus himself would have chosen, at least showed him that his companion and himself were agreed on their fundamental conception of the universe. “If you will tell me where I can find some,” he said, “I will give you half a crown.” A glimmer of astonished interest lit up the man’s dull eyes. “Whatcher want to know for?” “That’s my business,” said Quixtus. The cabman, suddenly awakened, saw the possibility of a fare. He clambered out of the vehicle. “Cab, sir?” he called across the road. “Yes,” said Quixtus. “‘Arf a crown?” said the battered man. “Certainly,” said Quixtus. “Then I’ll tell yer, guv’nor. I’ve been a bookie’s tout, see? Not a slap-up bookie in the ring—but an outside one—one what did a bit of welshing when he could, see?—and what I say is, that I seed more wickedness there than anywhere else. If you want to see blankety blank wickedness you go on the turf.” He cleared his throat, but his whisper had grown almost inaudible. “I’ve gone and lost my voice,” he said. Quixtus looked at the drenched, starved, voiceless, unshorn horror of a man standing outcast and dying of want and wickedness in the grey dawn, under the shadow of the central symbols of the pomp and majesty of England. “You look very ill,” said he. “Consumpshon,” breathed the man.