Whether from his walk or from his sleepless night, Shelton seemed to ache in every limb; but he continued his tramp along the road.  He was no nearer to deciding what to do.  It was late in the afternoon when he reached Maidenhead, and, after breaking fast, got into a London train and went to sleep.  At ten o’clock that evening he walked into St. James’s Park and there sat down.

The lamplight dappled through the tired foliage on to these benches which have rested many vagrants.  Darkness has ceased to be the lawful cloak of the unhappy; but Mother Night was soft and moonless, and man had not despoiled her of her comfort, quite.

Shelton was not alone upon the seat, for at the far end was sitting a young girl with a red, round, sullen face; and beyond, and further still, were dim benches and dim figures sitting on them, as though life’s institutions had shot them out in an endless line of rubbish.

“Ah!” thought Shelton, in the dreamy way of tired people; “the institutions are all right; it’s the spirit that’s all—­”

“Wrong?” said a voice behind him; “why, of course!  You’ve taken the wrong turn, old man.”

He saw a policeman, with a red face shining through the darkness, talking to a strange old figure like some aged and dishevelled bird.

“Thank you, constable,” the old man said, “as I’ve come wrong I’ll take a rest.”  Chewing his gums, he seemed to fear to take the liberty of sitting down.

Shelton made room, and the old fellow took the vacant place.

“You’ll excuse me, sir, I’m sure,” he said in shaky tones, and snatching at his battered hat; “I see you was a gentleman”—­and lovingly he dwelt upon the word—­“would n’t disturb you for the world.  I’m not used to being out at night, and the seats do get so full.  Old age must lean on something; you’ll excuse me, sir, I ’m sure.”

“Of course,” said Shelton gently.

“I’m a respectable old man, really,” said his neighbour; “I never took a liberty in my life.  But at my age, sir, you get nervous; standin’ about the streets as I been this last week, an’ sleepin’ in them doss-houses—­Oh, they’re dreadful rough places—­a dreadful rough lot there!  Yes,” the old man said again, as Shelton turned to look at him, struck by the real self-pity in his voice, “dreadful rough places!”

A movement of his head, which grew on a lean, plucked neck like that of an old fowl, had brought his face into the light.  It was long, and run to seed, and had a large, red nose; its thin, colourless lips were twisted sideways and apart, showing his semi-toothless mouth; and his eyes had that aged look of eyes in which all colour runs into a thin rim round the iris; and over them kept coming films like the films over parrots’ eyes.  He was, or should have been, clean-shaven.  His hair—­for he had taken off his hat was thick and lank, of dusty colour, as far as could be seen, without a speck of grey, and parted very beautifully just about the middle.