“When are yer going to start?” asked Barney Bill.

Paul felt his wages jingle in his pocket.  He was a capitalist.  The thrill of independence swept him from head to foot.  What time like the present?  “I’ll start now,” said he.

It was night.  Quite dark, save for the stars; the lights already disappearing in the fringe of mean houses whose outline was merged against the blackness of the town; the green and red and white disks along the railway line behind the dim mass of the gasworks; the occasional streak of conglomerate fireflies that was a tramcar; and the red, remorseless glow of here and there a furnace that never was extinct in the memory of man.  And, save for the far shriek of trains, the less remote and more frequent clanging of passing tramcars along the road edged with the skeleton cottages, and, startlingly near, the vain munching and dull footfall of the old horse, all was still.  Compared with home and Budge Street, it was the reposeful quiet of the tomb.  Barney Bill smoked for a time in silence, while Paul sat with clenched fists and a beating heart.  The simplicity of the high adventure dazed him.  All he had to do was to walk away—­walk and walk, free as a sparrow.

Presently Barney Bill slid from the footboard.  “You stay here, sonny, till I come back.”

He limped away across the dim brickfield and sat down at the edge of the hollow where the woman had been murdered.  He had to think; to decide a nice point of ethics.  A vagrant seller of brooms and jute mats, even though he does carry about with him “Cassell’s Family Reader” and “The Remains of Henry Kirke White,” is distracted by few psychological problems.  Sufficient for the day is the physical thereof.  And when a man like Barney Bill is unencumbered by the continuous feminine, the ordinary solution of life is simple.  But now the man had to switch his mind back to times before Paul was born, when the eternal feminine had played the very devil with him, when all sorts of passions and emotions had whirled his untrained being into dizziness.  No passions or emotions now affected him; but their memory created an atmosphere of puzzledom.  He had to adjust values.  He had to deputize for Destiny.  He also had to harmonize the pathetically absurd with the grimly real.  He took off his cap and scratched his cropped head.  After a while he damned something indefinite and hastened in his dot-and-carry-one fashion to the van.

“Quite made up yer mind to go in search of yer ’ighborn parents?”

“Ay,” said Paul.

“Like me to give yer a lift, say, as far as London?”

Paul sprang to the ground and opened his mouth to speak.  But his knees grew weak and he quivered all over like one who beholds the god.  The abstract nebulous romance of his pilgrimage had been crystallized, in a flash, into the concrete.  “Ay,” he panted.

“Ay!” and he steadied himself with his back and elbows against the shafts.