Macneillie turned away thoughtfully, his mind at work on that old, old problem of evil and suffering, of the possible gain to others through the inexplicable pain of the world. The thought of it haunted him as he wrote business letters in his lonely room, as he went about his work that night at the theatre, as he looked with a sense of dull disappointment and depression at the rows of empty stalls, and reflected how much hard toil and careful preparation had been thrown away on an enterprise by which he was daily losing money. Someone brought an evening paper into the green room, he glanced hurriedly at an account of the new play shortly to be produced by Barry Sterne; he read a few lines as to the part Christine was to take, and was pleased by a brief allusion to the success Ralph had had in the summer. But as he went back to his rooms a weary distaste for his work in the provinces came over him, he longed as he had never longed before to be back in London, to be working once more with his old comrades. The dismal rain still fell in a drizzle, the flaring lights in the public house at the corner of Wild Street were reflected garishly in the wet pavement. A little further on as he crossed London Road he came upon a small crowd grouped about a tram car, and paused listlessly to see what was wrong. The horses were vainly struggling to make good their footing on the slippery road; they stumbled and plunged and strained, but the uphill way was too much for them, the car slipped back and for a minute the passengers seemed in some peril. Macneillie drew nearer and spoke to the conductor who was at the horses’ heads doing his utmost to urge them on. “Is the load too heavy for them?” said Macneillie. “Bless you, no sir,” said the man, “they’ve done it scores of times, but it’s a strain on ’em when the road’s slippery, and this ’ere roan ’e’es afraid of coming down. It’s just panic sir, nothing more, ’e can do it fast enough.” Macneillie stroked the neck of the frightened horse, he had a fellow feeling for it. “We can’t have the line blocked or the passengers upset,” said the driver, with an oath which appeared to refresh him greatly. “Come on mate, he must do it. Take the whip and keep alongside of him thrashing him as we go.” At last with much ado the car was in motion once more, and the poor roan, kicking and plunging, was dragged and flogged up the hill. “Oh, how could you let them be so cruel, Mr. Macneillie!” said Ivy who, on her way back to her rooms with Helen Orme, had witnessed the same scene.