He settled himself in a corner of the bar-parlour and picked up a newspaper from an adjoining table, there was a good fire in the grate close by, and he glanced at it approvingly as at the face of an old friend, and occasionally stretched out a hand to it. In this fashion he spent half an hour; at the end of that time he pulled out a watch, and here again a keen observer would have noted something of significance. The watch hung from a cheap steel chain, of the sort that you can buy anywhere for a couple of shillings, but the watch itself was a good, first-class article of solid gold, old, no doubt, but valuable. He replaced it in his pocket with an air of indecision; then, apparently, making up his mind about something, he had his glass replenished, and for another half-hour he sat, gradually growing warmer and more courageous. But soon after eight o'clock had struck from a neighbouring church tower, he rose, buttoned his overcoat about his throat, and, picking up bag and umbrella, made for the door. Ere he had reached it another moment of apparent indecision came over him. It ended in his returning to the bar and asking to be supplied with a bottle of whisky. He counted out its price from a handful of silver which he drew from his hip pocket, and, placing the bottle in the bag, made his exit and went out again into the night. It was a badly-lighted street down which this man turned--a street of small, mean houses, wherein there were few lights in the windows and the gas lamps were placed far apart. Consequently, he had some difficulty in finding the number he wanted, and was obliged to look closely within the doorways to get an idea of its exact situation. But he got it at last, and knocked--to wait until a slight opening of the door revealed a dimly-lighted, narrow passage, and a girl between the lamp and himself. "Mrs. Watson in?" he asked, making as if to enter. The girl shook her head. "Mrs. Watson's dead, sir--died three years ago," she answered. "Name of Marshall here now." The inquirer appeared to be seriously taken aback. "Sorry to hear that," he said. "I used to get a night's lodgings with her in years past. Do they let lodgings here now?" "No, sir," said the girl, "but there's plenty of houses where they do, both sides of the street. You'll see cards in the windows, sir." The man thanked his informant and went away--to look for the cards of which the girl had spoken. There were plenty of these cards in the windows. He could see them, dismal and ghost-like in the gloom, and very soon he paused, irresolute. "One's as good as another, I reckon," he muttered at last. "And when you can't afford an hotel----"