“No, that’s one of the reasons, you know,” he said; “one must find out.  The darkness is jolly, too; anything might happen here.  Last week there was a murder; there ’s always the chance of one.”

Shelton stared; but the charge of morbidness would not lie against this fresh-cheeked stripling.

“There’s a splendid drain just here,” his guide resumed; “the people are dying like flies of typhoid in those three houses”; and under the first light he turned his grave, cherubic face to indicate the houses.  “If we were in the East End, I could show you other places quite as good.  There’s a coffee-stall keeper in one that knows all the thieves in London; he ’s a splendid type, but,” he added, looking a little anxiously at Shelton, “it might n’t be safe for you.  With me it’s different; they ’re beginning to know me.  I’ve nothing to take, you see.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be to-night,” said Shelton; “I must get back.”

“Do you mind if I walk with you?  It’s so jolly now the stars are out.”

“Delighted,” said Shelton; “do you often go to that club?”

His companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“They ’re rather too high-class for me,” he said.  “I like to go where you can see people eat—­school treats, or somewhere in the country.  It does one good to see them eat.  They don’t get enough, you see, as a rule, to make bone; it’s all used up for brain and muscle.  There are some places in the winter where they give them bread and cocoa; I like to go to those.”

“I went once,” said Shelton, “but I felt ashamed for putting my nose in.”

“Oh, they don’t mind; most of them are half-dead with cold, you know.  You see splendid types; lots of dipsomaniacs . . . .  It ’s useful to me,” he went on as they passed a police-station, “to walk about at night; one can take so much more notice.  I had a jolly night last week in Hyde Park; a chance to study human nature there.”

“And do you find it interesting?” asked Shelton.

His companion smiled.

“Awfully,” he replied; “I saw a fellow pick three pockets.”

“What did you do?”

“I had a jolly talk with him.”

Shelton thought of the little deep-eyed man; who made a point of not encouraging sin.

“He was one of the professionals from Notting Hill, you know; told me his life.  Never had a chance, of course.  The most interesting part was telling him I ’d seen him pick three pockets—­like creeping into a cave, when you can’t tell what ’s inside.”

“Well?”

“He showed me what he ’d got—­only fivepence halfpenny.”

“And what became of your friend?” asked Shelton.

“Oh, went off; he had a splendidly low forehead.”

They had reached Shelton’s rooms.

“Will you come in,” said the latter, “and have a drink?”

The youth smiled, blushed, and shook his head.