It was quite evident that Ocky was losing his pluck. He would have forgotten his spats and would have forgotten to twirl his mustaches, if Glory hadn't been at hand to make him jaunty. They popped him into a hansom and whirled him off to dinner at the Trocadero. He sat between them, holding Glory's hand and blinking at the glaring shops; he was more accustomed to darkness. At the entrance to the restaurant he clutched at Peter, “I don't belong here, old chap.” “Nonsense. Glory and I----” All through dinner Peter told his uncle what he and Glory were going to do for him. By-and-bye he, Peter, would have money. When he had money, he would buy a little house in the country. Ocky should live there with Glory, and he, Peter, between the intervals of making more money, would run down and visit them. It seemed almost true, almost possible, in that brilliant room where the corks flew out of bottles and the music clashed. It almost seemed that the world was generous--that it would give him another chance. He gazed from the eager boy, so keen to convince him of happiness, to the flower-face of his stepdaughter, which nodded and nodded, insisting, “Yes. Yes. Yes,” to Peter's optimism. He asked if he might have whisky. When he got it, he tried to deceive himself and others as to the quantity he was drinking. “God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too strong.” Then he would dilute it. “God bless my soul! I've made my whisky too weak.” The alcohol whipped up his courage. Of course there were good times coming. Peter would see to it; he never promised anything that he didn't accomplish. Then, again he caught sight of the two young faces--but what had Peter to do with Glory? They stepped into another hansom. Piccadilly Circus was a blazing jewel. Streets were gun-metal, washed with liquid gold. People were silver flowers. Peter would do it. The curtain went up. He was a child again. He laughed at everything. How long was it since he had laughed? He kept nudging his companions, afraid lest they should miss the jokes. They were just the kind of jokes he used to make--Mr. Widow was his only audience now. You couldn't expect a murderer to be a humorist--if he were a humorist he wouldn't be a murderer. He had laughed rather louder than usual. Someone turned round in the row just in front. A girl! He looked more closely. She was staring at him. Her companion followed her eyes, seemed surprised, and nodded to Peter and Glory. All through the evening the strange man kept turning round stealthily--the girl, without seeming to do so, was trying to prevent him. Next day, when Glory returned from Topbury to Southgate, Riska met her with clenched hands. “Now you've done it.” “Done what?” “Lost him for me. He's begun to suspect. He wants to know who was that shabby man with you and Peter. Of course I daren't tell him. He says I look like him. You stupid! And last night I'm sure he was going to have proposed to me.--And Ocky isn't even your father.”