He hurried off, and in a moment the clack of bagatelle began again. He himself was playing with a cold and spurious energy, running after the balls and exhorting the other players, upon whom a wooden acquiescence seemed to fall. Shelton crossed the room, and went up to young Curly. He was sitting on a bench, smiling to himself his private smiles. “Are you staying here much longer?” Shelton asked. Young Curly rose with nervous haste. “I 'm afraid,” he said, “there 's nobody very interesting here to-night.” “Oh, not at all!” said Shelton; “on the contrary. Only I 've had a rather tiring day, and somehow I don't feel up to the standard here.” His new acquaintance smiled. “Oh, really! do you think--that is--” But he had not time to finish before the clack of bagatelle balls ceased, and the voice of the little deep-eyed man was heard saying: “Anybody who wants a book will put his name down. There will be the usual prayer-meeting on Wednesday next. Will you all go quietly? I am going to turn the lights out.” One gas-jet vanished, and the remaining jet flared suddenly. By its harder glare the wooden room looked harder too, and disenchanting. The figures of its occupants began filing through the door. The little man was left in the centre of the room, his deep eyes smouldering upon the backs of the retreating members, his thumb and finger raised to the turncock of the metre. “Do you know this part?” asked young Curly as they emerged into the street. “It 's really jolly; one of the darkest bits in London--it is really. If you care, I can take you through an awfully dangerous place where the police never go.” He seemed so anxious for the honour that Shelton was loath to disappoint him. “I come here pretty often,” he went on, as they ascended a sort of alley rambling darkly between a wall and row of houses. “Why?” asked Shelton; “it does n't smell too nice.” The young man threw up his nose and sniffed, as if eager to add any new scent that might be about to his knowledge of life. “No, that's one of the reasons, you know,” he said; “one must find out. The darkness is jolly, too; anything might happen here. Last week there was a murder; there 's always the chance of one.” Shelton stared; but the charge of morbidness would not lie against this fresh-cheeked stripling. “There's a splendid drain just here,” his guide resumed; “the people are dying like flies of typhoid in those three houses”; and under the first light he turned his grave, cherubic face to indicate the houses. “If we were in the East End, I could show you other places quite as good. There's a coffee-stall keeper in one that knows all the thieves in London; he 's a splendid type, but,” he added, looking a little anxiously at Shelton, “it might n't be safe for you. With me it's different; they 're beginning to know me. I've nothing to take, you see.” “I'm afraid it can't be to-night,” said Shelton; “I must get back.”