Iniquity snatched it, bit it, and spat upon it--why this latter it is difficult to say--through all of which tests the coin seemingly emerged triumphant. It was pocketed, and the sought-for information was hoarsely supplied. "It's Wat'loo Bridge, m'lord." Then he vanished into the fog like a dismissed spirit. The elderly gentleman groped his way on, ever keeping touch of the stone balustrade. Suddenly he started at the sound of a shrill whistle. He quickened his step, for he knew not what such a call might portend, and he had no fancy for being the means of supplying the breakfast-table next morning with sensational matter. Yet as he moved quickly over the sticky pavement, there came upon him the feeling that he was being followed. What if the boy were a pilot-fish, and had returned to direct the shark towards his prey, and the shark were close at his heels now? The thought was disquieting, and took strong hold of him. He looked round for a policeman, forgetful in his apprehension of the fog. At last he took to his heels. Such a thing it was safe to say he had not done for years, and those years had had their say, as was quickly demonstrated, for he got no further than the centre of the bridge. There a murky halo of light was some small comfort. He paused. What was it he heard? Hurried footsteps surely! His blood seemed more than ever to chill, and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. It struck him that this sort of thing was very bad for him. He clutched at his umbrella for want of any stouter weapon. Almost as he did so, a man lunged from out the darkness, and grasped him by the throat. That grasp meant murder, and he knew it. A hundred trivialities flitted through his mind, as he had always been told they did in face of death. He managed to look round, though choking and gasping as he was, he could not cry for help. And now it came, as all else had come, apparently from nowhere--unaccountably. A woman rushed up and flung herself on the arm that was strangling him. As in a dream he heard what she said. "No, Jabez. No--let him go, let him go!" "Miriam!" The hand relaxed its grip, and its victim fell on the pavement. "You here? Get out of it, can't you?" "No, I will not. Leave the man alone I tell you. Would you murder him?" "Yes--for your sake. Aren't you starving--aren't we both starving? Curse him. I'll have his watch anyhow. Ah, would you!" (There was evidence of some slight show of resistance on the part of Respectability, who was now gathering together his scattered senses.) "Do that and I'll squeeze the life out of you!" A flutter of skirts and a rush. Then the sound of the woman's voice--a refined voice--raised as in desperation. "Jabez, Jabez! I'm on the parapet, Jabez, and I swear if you do not leave him I will throw myself into the river!" "Miriam, come down I say, come down." "Only if you leave him!" "Damn him then; let him go to the devil!"