He turned, with the quick defensive gesture natural to a man so accosted at such a time, and faced the unexpected figure. An old man, clad in filthy fluttering rags, stood staring at him, with both hands stretched out. The rags shook as much with the horrible cough that tore him as with the cruel wind. He was a dreadful creature, with watery eyes, and a head and moustache of dirty gray. His long and unvenerable hairs strayed loose beneath the dunghill relic which crowned them. The rain was in his hair and beard, and had so soaked his tattered dress that it clung to him like the feathers of a drenched fowl. He shook and wheezed and panted, and gripped the air with tremulous fingers, and through the rents in his clothing his white flesh gleamed in the gaslight. The look of surprise and pity which Philip bent upon this unclean apparition was startled into one of sudden fear and horror. In the very instant when these emotions struck him, they were reflected in the other’s face. The man made a motion to run, but Philip clutched his arm, and he stood cowering and unresisting. ‘You! Here in London?’ ‘Phil,’ said the spectre imploringly, ‘for God’s sake help me. I didn’t know it was you, when I followed you. I thought----’ his voice trailed into silence. ‘You have come to this?’ ‘Yes, Phil; this is what I’ve come to.’ The cough took him here again, and tore him so that he was fain to lean against the shutters of a shop near at hand. ‘Why do you come back here? Are you mad?’ ‘I am--almost. What could I do? I’m as safe here as I am anywhere. Who would know me? or, if they did, who would hurt a wretch like me? I haven’t slept in a bed for weeks, Phil. I haven’t eaten a morsel for three days. For God’s sake! give me some money. I’ll--I’ll go away; I’ll never trouble you again.’ ‘I’ll give you all I can. But you must go away from London.’ Philip thrust his hand into his pocket and brought up all the pocket’s contents. He took his keys and an unvalued trifle or two from the handful, and held the rest out towards his father. The old man shrunk from him with a terrible appeal and shamefaced gratitude which cut the son’s heart like a knife. ‘Where can I go to?’ ‘Anywhere out of London. You are not--safe here. Go away. Write to me here.’ He thrust an envelope on which his name and address were written into the old man’s dirty trembling hand. ‘You must never come to see me. Promise me that.’ ‘I promise,’ he said; and, thrusting the money and the envelope somewhere among his rags, stood silent for a while. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I acted very foolishly and very----’ Then his voice trailed away again. ‘God help you!’ said Philip with a choking voice. ‘You’ll shake hands, won’t you, Phil? ‘said the old man. Phil took the proffered hand. ‘It’s something,’ said Bommaney the elder, clinging to him, ‘to feel an honest man’s hand again, God bless you, Phil!--God bless you!’