He walked by her side passively. Once he stopped and bought an evening paper, and under the next gas lamp he read a certain paragraph through carefully. She waited for him without remark. He folded the paper up after a minute or two and rejoined her. Side by side they threaded their way along Pall Mall, across the Park and southwards. A walk which, an hour or two ago, would have filled him with wonder and delight, he undertook now with purely mechanical movements and unseeing eyes. When they reached Chelsea she paused. "Look here," she said, "are you feeling all right now?" He nodded. "I am quite myself again," he said, steadily. "I am much obliged to you for looking after me. You are very kind." He drew some gold pieces hesitatingly from his pocket. She motioned him to replace them. "I don't want any money, thanks," she said. "Now listen. That street there is all lodging-houses. Go and get a room and lie quiet for a bit. They're used to odd folk down here, and you look like a painter or a writer. Say you're an actor out of a job, or anything that comes handy." "Thank you," he said. "I understand." She turned away. "Good night, then." "Good night." He heard something that sounded like a sob, and the quick rustling of skirts. He turned round. She was by the corner--out of sight already. At the bottom of the street was the glitter of a gas lamp reflected from the walk. He walked down and found himself on Chelsea Embankment. He made his way to the wall with the gold which she had refused still in his hand, and without hesitation threw the coins far out into the river. Then he looked around. There was not a soul in sight. He drew a handful of money from his pocket and flung it away--a little shower of gold flashing brightly in the gaslight for a moment. He went through his pockets carefully and found an odd half sovereign and some silver. Away they went. Then he moved back to a seat and closed his eyes. CHAPTER VII A NIGHT IN HELL--AND NEXT DAY