When he left the prison Nicholas Bly realised that he had legs to walk with but nowhere to go, hands to work with but nothing to do, a brain to think with but never a thought. He was almost startled to find himself utterly alone, and his loneliness drove him into a hot rage. In prison he had thought vaguely of the world as a warm place outside, to which in the course of days he would return. Now that he had returned the world had nothing to do with him and he had nothing to do with it. He prowled through the streets, but a sort of pride forbade him to eat the cabbage stalks and crusts of the gutters, and to rob children of their parents’ beer he was ashamed. He looked for work, but was everywhere refused, and he said to himself: “Prison is the best the world can do for men like me.” But he was determined to give the world a better reason for putting him in prison than sleeping in a brick-field because it was warm. The world was cold. He would make it warm. The devil was in the world: he would burn him out, use his own element against him. He chose the largest timber-yard he could find, and that night he stole a can of petrol, and when he had placed it in a heap of shavings went out into the street to find some matches. He met a seedy individual in a coat with a fur collar and a broad-brimmed hat, who looked like an actor, and he asked him if he could oblige him with a match. “Lucifers,” said the seedy individual and gave him three. Nicholas Bly returned to the timber-yard with the matches. He struck one. It went off like a rocket. The second exploded like a Chinese cracker, and he was just lighting the third when he heard a melancholy chuckle. He turned his head and found the seedy individual gazing at him with an expression of wistfulness. “Like old times,” said the seedy individual. Nicholas Bly lit the third match and it flooded the whole yard with Bengal light, and still he had not set fire to his petrol. “Gimme another match,” said Nicholas Bly; “watch me set fire to the yard and go and tell.” “I have no more,” replied the stranger. “Those were my last. I no longer make fire or instruments of fire. No one wants my tricks. I have lost everything and am doomed.” “I have lost my wife, my children and my work.” “I have lost my kingdom, my power and my glory.” “The devil took them,” answered Nicholas Bly. “I wish I had,” replied the stranger. IV: THE DARK GENTLEMAN’S STORY Nicholas Bly fetched a screech loud enough to wake a whole parish. The dark gentleman pounced on him firmly and gagged him with his hand, and his fingers burnt into the newsagent’s cheek. “Be silent,” said the dark gentleman, “you’ll have them coming and taking you away from me. Will you be silent?” Nicholas Bly nodded to say he would be silent. Then he said: “If you didn’t take them, who did?”