TWO MEETINGS._Dorrien of Cranston

For three days Roland lay in his shabby lodgings, too ill to stir from

his bed; and but for the consciousness that, if he would accomplish his

purpose, he must rouse himself, and determine to rally, the probability

is that he would never have risen from it at all.

The effort must be made. His vitality, sadly impaired by a long course

of semi-starvation, must be restored by the contrary treatment. He was

not going to die in any such squalid hole as this, among the dirty and

repellant semblances of humanity, who, under the circumstances,

grudgingly ministered to his wants. Not he. He would get up; try

whether the air would set him on his legs again, and if so, would

certainly carry out his plan the very next day. His funds, considerably

replenished by the price of parting with his last, faithful friend,

would enable him to do this, only it must be done at once, and then--

afterwards! Well, he had a plan.

Rising with an effort from his bed, Roland proceeded to dress himself,

with infinite difficulty, for he felt wretchedly weak and dazed. Then

at the picture which his distorted and cracked mirror presented him

with, he fairly started. His beard, which he had allowed to grow at

will since his misfortunes, was now plentifully streaked with grey, and

with such alarming suddenness had this come about that he stared at his

reflected face in amazement. Then he remembered with sardonic

bitterness that this circumstance would yet further aid his plans. Who

would recognise him now?

It was afternoon when he sallied forth. With a pang he missed his

attached companion, and his sense of loneliness seemed enhanced tenfold.

The short winter day was already closing in, and a keen north-easter,

wafting particles of sleet from the black and riftless sky, chilled him

to the bone. Anything, though, rather than remain longer in the

frightful depression of his dingy rooms.

The dark sky and the winter gloom struck him as an earnest of what life

was to be henceforth. The pinched and sour expression on the

countenance of the British public struggling in the teeth of the biting

north-easter, reflected aptly the attitude of the world towards him who

is irrevocably down. Nothing was above a certain value--not even life,

for may not life itself be held on terms too hard?

His wanderings had brought him to Charing Cross, and walking a little

way up the Strand he turned into a well-known tavern to dine. Then it

occurred to him that he might as well look out a certain train.

But the A.B.C. time-table, requisite for this purpose, was not among the

resources of the establishment.

"Where can I get one, then?" he asked.

"We can send out for one, sir," said the waiter.

"Then do."

Not till an hour had passed was the A.B.C. put into his hands.

"Why the devil have you been so long about it?" he asked, rendered

irritable by the fatigue and excitement of the day, as he snatched it in

eager haste, and his hands trembled as he turned over the leaves.

"What the devil are you staring at now?" he cried, looking up and

meeting the glance of the waiter, who was watching him curiously. The

man muttered a word of apology and hastened away.

At length he found the train he wanted, put a mark against it, and

turned down the corner of the page. Then he fell into a profound

reverie. Suddenly he started up, paid his bill and hurried away.

"Tom," said the waiter who had attended on him, hailing a colleague.

"See that cove just gone out?"

"Yes."

"Should you know him again?"

"Swear to him anywhere," was the laconic reply.

"'E's a queer 'un. Look. 'E's left his time-table that he kicked up

such a blessed row about gettin'. Wonder where 'e's a-goin'. Look

'ere, it's turned down and marked."

At that moment Roland had suddenly come to a standstill in the street,

and like the proverbial Caledonian, was swearing "at large." For it had

dawned upon him that he had forgotten his A.B.C. Should he go back for

it? No; too far. He would get another.

But little he dreamed what gigantic importance to his weal or woe that

trivial act of forgetfulness would one day assume.

The cold was cutting, and just now a gust of driving sleet swept down

upon him, and in contrast he became aware of the glaring portico of a

variety theatre just in front. There at any rate he would be warm.

Once within, seated, with something to drink in front of him, and

smoking a cigar--the first for several long months--he gave himself up

to a sheer sense of warmth and physical comfort, which, combined with

the effects of the stimulants, produced a state of dreamy placidity. To

the performance he paid no attention whatever. Turn after turn was the

same, dull, tawdry, idiotic--but each intensely respectable in its

vulgar way.

Overcome by the stuffiness of the place, he went out for a little while.

On his return the house was in a ferment of excitement. The star

performer of the evening had just been on--and off; an athletic

exhibition apparently, as the attendants were removing a net and tight

rope, among other things; and a popular one, for some belated

hand-clapping was still going on. But for him it had no more interest

than had any of the others, nor did the overheard remarks made by those

in the neighbourhood--to the effect that they wouldn't have missed it

for anything--strike him with any overwhelming sense of loss. Then, as

the performance drew to an end, he made his way into the street.

The sleet showers had ceased, the wind had gone down, and the night,

clear and fine, was an agreeable contrast to the confined atmosphere and

garish interior of the theatre. Roland, threading the hurrying crowds

homeward-bound from the numerous places of entertainment, felt small

inclination to follow their example. He preferred the open air.

Strolling down Whitehall, unaware of a figure in a long ulster following

at some little distance behind, he reached Westminster Bridge. It

seemed very still and quiet here. The bridge was destitute of

passers-by, and the double crescent of lights twinkled like eyes upon

the dark waters. The tide was at ebb, and the black current swirled

beneath the piers with many a hiss and hollow gurgle, and the solitary

watcher felt chained to the spot by a weird and intangible fascination.

Just then, with sepulchral boom, "Great Tom" began tolling the hour of

midnight.

The pedestrian turned to retrace his steps. As he did so the figure in

the ulster stopped suddenly, and faced him. The move had been well

timed. Roland gave a great start, and stared in bewildered fashion upon

the face confronting him in the full glare of the lamplight, for he was

looking into the limpid blue eyes of Lizzie Devine.

"Well!" she said, and there was a flash of white teeth as the full lips

parted into a very attractive smile, which broadened into a little laugh

at the sudden and cold look of disapproval which had frozen up the

expression of the other's face. "That's right, think the worst of me,"

she went on. "Only, if you do, you happen to be wrong--though it's

little enough difference it would make to you, I should suppose, even if

you weren't."

"What on earth are you doing up here, Lizzie?" he said, ignoring the

"feeler."

"Left Cranston for good, eh?"

"Don't know. I left soon after you did, so can't give you all the