I was absorbed in my own thoughts, and took no notice.  Presently he continued—­

“Whittington is an overrated character, don’t you think?  After all he owed his success to his name.  It’s a great thing for struggling youth to have a three-syllabled name with a proparoxyton accent.  I’ve been listening to the bells to-night and they can make nothing of Loveday, while as for Trenoweth, it’s hopeless.”

As I still remained silent, Tom proceeded to announce—­

“The House will now go into the Question of Supply.”

“The Exchequer,” I reported, “contains exactly sixteen and eightpence halfpenny.”

“Rent having been duly paid to-day and receipt given.”

“Receipt given,” I echoed.

“Really, when one comes to think of it, the situation is striking.  Here are you, Jasper Trenoweth, inheritor of the Great Ruby of Ceylon, besides other treasure too paltry to mention, in danger of starving in a garret.  Here am I, Thomas Loveday, author of ‘Francesca:  a Tragedy,’ and other masterpieces too numerous to catalogue, with every prospect of sharing your fate.  The situation is striking, Jasper, you’ll allow.”

“What did the manager say about it?” I asked.

“Only just enough to show he had not looked at it.  He was more occupied with my appearance; and yet we agreed before I set out that your trousers might have been made for me.  They are the most specious articles in our joint wardrobe:  I thought to myself as walked along to-day, Jasper, that after all it is not the coat that makes the gentleman—­it’s the trousers.  Now, in the matter of boots, I surpass you.  If yours decay at their present rate, your walks in Oxford Street will become a luxury.”

I was silent again.

“I do not recollect any case in fiction of a man being baulked of his revenge for the want of a pair of boots.  Cheer up, Jasper, boy,” he continued, rising and placing a hand on my shoulder.  “We have been fools, and have paid for it.  You thought you could find your enemy in London, and find the hiding-place too big.  I thought I could write, and find I cannot.  As for legitimate work, sixteen and eightpence halfpenny, even with economy, will hardly carry us on for three years.”

I rose.  “I will have one more walk in Oxford Street,” I said, “and then come home and see this miserable farce of starvation out.”

“Don’t be a fool, Jasper.  It is difficult, I know, to perish with dignity on sixteen and eightpence halfpenny:  the odd coppers spoil the effect.  Still we might bestow them on a less squeamish beggar and redeem our pride.”

“Tom,” I said, suddenly, “you lost a lot of money once over rouge-et-noir.”

“Don’t remind me of that, Jasper.”

“No, no; but where did you lose it?”

“At a gambling hell off Leicester Square.  But why—­”

“Should you know the place again?  Could you find it?”