church-going, and are full of the shadows of an everlasting respectability which pays its water rates and sends occasional conscience-money to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.  People looked furtive, and went in and out of the houses furtively.  They crawled rather than pranced, and their bodies bore themselves with a depression that seemed indiscreet.  Occasionally men with dripping umbrellas knocked at the doors under the red glass, and disappeared into narrow passages inhabited by small iron umbrella-stands.  Night brooded here like a dyspeptic raven with moulting tail-feathers and ragged wings.  But London is eloquent of surprises.  The cab turned a corner, and instantly they were in a wide and rain-swept street, long and straight, and lined with reserved houses, that shrank back from the publicity of the passing traffic at the end of narrow alleys protected by iron gates.  Over many of these gates appeared lit arches of glass on which names were inscribed:  “Albion Hotel,” “Valetta Hotel,” “Imperial Hotel,” “Cosmopolitan Hotel,”—­great names for small houses.  These houses had front doors with glass panels, and all the panels glowed dimly with gas.

The cab flashed by them, and Julian read the fleeting names, until his eyes were suddenly saluted with “European Hotel.”

Violently the cabman drew up.  The smoking horse was squeezed upon its haunches, and its feet slithered harshly along the stones.  It tried to sit down, was hauled up by the reins, and stood trembling as the right wheel of the cab collided with the pavement edge, and the water in the gutter splashed up as if projected from a spray.

“Beg pardon, gents.  I thought it was a bit further on,” said the cabby, leering down cheerfully.  “Nice night, sir, ain’t it?”

He shook the reluctant drops of moisture from his waterproof-shrouded hat, and drove off.

Valentine opened the damp iron gate, and they walked up the paved alley to the door.

CHAPTER IV

THE EUSTON ROAD EPISODE

Opening the door, they found themselves in a squalid passage.  A room on the left was fronted by a sort of counter, above which was a long window giving onto the passage, and as the shrill tinkle of a bell announced their entrance this window was pushed up, and the large red face and furtive observant eyes of a man stared upon them inquiringly.

“Do you require a room for the night?” he asked, in a husky voice, invaded by a strong French accent.  “Because—­”

“No,” interrupted Julian.

The man nodded, and, strange to say, with apparent content.

“There is trouble in my house,” he said.  “I am unlucky; I come to England from my country to earn an honest living, and before two years, I have the police here last night.”

“Yes,” said Julian, “I know.”