He gazed forth into the darkness, forth upon the swirling water--dully, without thought, in the flat stupor of unrising defeat.... Presently a bell began to send down the hour from a neighbouring steeple. Mechanically he counted the strokes. Twelve. The number at first had no significance, but after a moment its meaning thrilled him through. This was the New Year!... The New Year!... And how was he beginning it? Penniless--friendless--without work--with little strength--with no courage--without hope. A happy New Year, indeed! Suddenly all the bitterness that had been gathering and smouldering within him these last four months, burst out volcanically. And his passion was not alone in his own behalf; it was in behalf of the thousands of others who had made a similar struggle, and to whom the world had similarly denied the privilege of honesty. Starved and hopeless! Why? Because he could not work?--because there was no work?--because the world had decided the moral development of such as he required further punishment? No. Because the rich, powerful world was afraid!--afraid of its dollars! Because, if he were taken in, given a chance to live honestly, he might steal a bolt of cloth, or a coat, or a vase, or a shawl! There was the reason--the only reason. A bolt of cloth against a human life, begging to live! A coat against a human soul, agonising to be honest! Cloths and coats mean dollars--mean carriages, and diamonds, and wines. Cloths and coats must be guarded. But the human life? The human soul? In his wild rage David rose, turned his back upon the dark river, and shook his fist at the great indifferent city. CHAPTER IX THE OPEN ROAD At one o'clock David, still aflame with bitterness, was entering his room when a door across the hall opened and Kate Morgan looked out. "Come into my house!" she snapped in a whisper. David could not see her face, but her voice told him she was angry. He followed her. Actresses' photographs on the walls, a rug of glaring design, cheap red-and-green upholstered furniture that overcrowded the little room--such was Kate Morgan's parlour. She closed the door, then turned, her eyes blazing, and swore at him. "A nice time to be getting home! I've been waiting two hours for you!" For a moment he looked at her uncomprehendingly. "Oh, you're thinking of that robbery. You needn't have waited. I told you I'd have nothing to do with it." "Drop that bluffing! You know you're in it!" He started toward the door. "Where you going?" she demanded. "To bed." She seized his arm, stepped between him and the door and stared wrathfully up at him. She now saw how pale and drawn his face was. Her wrath slowly left her. "You're tired--blue," she said, abruptly, but softly. He nodded. "So I'm going to bed."