“She will be glad to see you,” said Miss Gregory.

“She will that,” he agreed.  He dropped his voice to the tones of confidence.  “I got an idea,” he said.  “Give her a surprise.  I’ll go along to the house just about dark and say I’m lookin’ for a room.  Eh?  And she’ll begin about terms.  Then I’ll begin.  ’Never you mind about terms,’ I’ll say. ‘’Ere’s the price of eight years sweatin’, and God bless you, old lady!’” He blinked rapidly, for his eyes were wet.  “What do you think of that for a surprise?”

“Capital!” agreed Miss Gregory.  “Are you going down the Coast by the boat to-morrow?”

“That’s it,” he cried.  “I’m going second-class, like a gentleman.  Home, by gosh!”

“Then,” suggested Miss Gregory, eyeing his sullen companions, “don’t you think it would be best if you went and got some sleep now?  You wouldn’t care to miss the boat, I suppose?”

He stared at her.  “No,” he said, as if the contingency had just occurred to him.  He sat back; his mild, insignificant face wore a look of alarm.  “No, I shouldn’t.  It wouldn’t do.”  His voice dropped again.  “It wouldn’t do,” he repeated.  “I’ve got it on me, an’ this ain’t what you call a moral place.”

Miss Gregory nodded comprehendingly.  “I know,” she said.  “So wouldn’t it be as well on all accounts to get to bed behind a locked door?”

“You’ve hit it,” he said.  “That’s what I got to do—­and lock the door.  That’s common sense, that is.”  He stared at her for an instant, then rose with care and deliberation to his feet.  He had altogether forgotten his companions; he did not even see them.

“That is, if it’ll lock,” he added, and held out his hand to Miss Gregory.

“Good-bye,” she said, taking it heartily.  “I’m glad to hear of your good fortune.”

He gulped and left her, walking forth through the little tables with the uncanny straightness of the man “in liquor.”  Miss Gregory drank up her coffee and sat where she was.

She could see the men at the next table out of the corner of her eye; their heads were together, and they were whispering excitedly.  The whole affair was plain enough to a veteran of the world’s byways like Miss Gregory; the plan had been to make the youth drunk, help him forth, and rob him easily in some convenient corner.  He was the kind of man who lends himself to being robbed; the real wonder was that it had not been done already.  But, mingled with her contempt for his helplessness, Miss Gregory felt a certain softening.  His homing instinct, as blind as that of a domestic animal, his rejoicing in his return, his childish plan for taking his mother by surprise, even his loyalty to the tramcars and all the busy littleness of Clapham Junction—­these touched something in her akin to the goodness of motherhood.  It occurred to her that perhaps he had been better off under the lights of the cafe than alone on his way to his bed; and at that moment the three men at the next table, their conference over, rose and went out.  She sat still till they were clear; then, on an impulse of officiousness, got up and went out after them.