The curate made a sudden movement in his place and his sallow young face flushed.  But he said nothing.

Glad’s small and sharp countenance became curious.

“’Speak, Lord, thy servant ‘eareth,’” she quoted tentatively.

“No,” answered Dart; “it was not like that.  I had never thought of such things.  I believed nothing.  I was going out to buy a pistol and when I returned intended to blow my brains out.”

“Why?” asked Glad, with passionately intent eyes; “why?”

“Because I was worn out and done for, and all the world seemed worn out and done for.  And among other things I believed I was beginning slowly to go mad.”

From the thief there burst forth a low groan and he turned his face to the wall.

“I’ve been there,” he said; “I ’m near there now.”

Dart took up speech again.

“There was no answer—­none.  As I stood waiting—­God knows for what—­the dead stillness of the room was like the dead stillness of the grave.  And I went out saying to my soul, ’This is what happens to the fool who cries aloud in his pain.’”

“I’ve cried aloud,” said the thief, “and sometimes it seemed as if an answer was coming—­but I always knew it never would!” in a tortured voice.

“’T ain’t fair to arst that wye,” Glad put in with shrewd logic.

“Miss Montaubyn she allers knows it will come—­an’ it does.”

“Something—­not myself—­turned my feet toward this place,” said Dart.  “I was thrust from one thing to another.  I was forced to see and hear things close at hand.  It has been as if I was under a spell.  The woman in the room below—­the woman lying dead!” He stopped a second, and then went on:  “There is too much that is crying out aloud.  A man such as I am—­it has forced itself upon me—­cannot leave such things and give himself to the dust.  I cannot explain clearly because I am not thinking as I am accustomed to think.  A change has come upon me.  I shall not use the pistol—­as I meant to use it.”

Glad made a friendly clutch at the sleeve of his shabby coat.

“Right O!” she cried.  “That’s it!  You buck up sime as I told yer.  Y’ ain’t stony broke an’ there’s ’allers to-morrer.”

Antony Dart’s expression was weirdly retrospective.

“I did not think so this morning,” he answered.

“But there is,” said the girl.  “Ain’t there now, curick?  There’s a lot o’ work in yer yet; yer could do all sorts o’ things if y’ ain’t too proud.  I’ll ’elp yer.  So ‘ll the curick.  Y’ ain’t found out yet what a little folks can live on till luck turns.  Me, I’m goin’ to try Miss Montaubyn’s wye.  Le’s both try.  Le’s believe things is comin’.  Le’s get ’er to talk to us some more.”

The curate was thinking the thing over deeply.

“Yer see,” Glad enlarged cheerfully, “yer look almost like a gentleman.  P’raps yer can write a good ‘and an’ spell all right.  Can yer?”