A week later Leicester was still in London. He had removed from the little hotel to which he had at first gone, and had taken a room in one of those old-fashioned enclosures which still remain in the heart of London. Here he fended for himself, the room being cleaned by an old deaf and nearly blind woman, who was glad to earn a few shillings a week in this way. He saw no one. Throughout the day he kept in his solitary chamber; he only went out at night, and then after the city had gone to sleep. What was in his mind it was difficult to say.

One night after midnight he went out alone. The theatres had all emptied themselves, and the streets, save for an occasional passer-by, were deserted. The lights still burned, but to him it looked like a city of the dead. The echoing footfalls which occasionally reached his ears sounded like the steps of some ghostly visitant rather than of a being of flesh and blood.

He presently came to the Law Courts, and walked in the direction of Ludgate Hill. The great buildings rose up stately and grand at his side, but they reminded him rather of a stupendous monument of the dead than of a battle-ground where keen intellects and grave wisdom waged war.

"Justice," he thought. "What justice is there in the world? What do either judges, or barristers, or juries care about justice? The whole world stinks with lies and injustice and cruelty. And yet why do I prate about these things? What is justice? Is there any such thing? What are all our thoughts but blind gropings after a phantom?"

The moon shone clearly overhead, and the spring air was clear and sweet even in the heart of the city; nevertheless there was a cold bite in the wind which found its way across the open spaces.

"As though Anything cared?" he went on musing. "What does it matter whether one is good or bad, idle or industrious? Some work and some play, some are rich and some are poor. Well, what's the odds? We are only like gnats, born when the sun rises, and die when it goes down. The worst of it is that this beastly little race leaves others of the same species behind. And so the farce will go on, until the earth grows cold and the race dies. Well, and what then? Whether one dies young or old, what does it affect? Who cares? Nothing cares."

He looked up at the great dome of blue, and saw here and there a star.

"As though, if there is Anything at the back of all things, the Force which caused those worlds could care for a paltry little earthworm like I am!"

He laughed aloud, and then shuddered at the sound of his own voice. The city seemed like some huge phantom which had no real existence.

He turned into one of the many ways which lead from Fleet Street to the river. If possible, it seemed more silent than ever here. The lights were less brilliant, life seemed to be extinct.

"Oh, what a coward, a poor whining coward I am," he said. "I think, and brood, and drink, and dream, and curse; but I do nothing. I, who used to boast of my will-power and my determination. I live like a rat in a hole; I dare not come out and show myself, and I dare not put an end to the dirty business called life, because I have a sort of haunting fear that I should not make an end of myself even although this carcase of mine should rot."

Presently he reached the Embankment, and he walked to the wall which bounded the river and looked over. The tide was going out. The dark, muddy river, carrying much of the refuse of London, rolled on towards the sea. Yet the waters gleamed bright, both in the light of the moon as well as in those of the lamps which stood by its banks, but the water was foul all the same, foul with the offal of a foul city. He turned away from it with a shudder.

"Why haven't I the pluck to take the plunge, instead of being the whining, drivelling idiot I am?" he cried. "Nothing cares, and nothing would happen—except nothingness."

He walked along the Embankment. "And yet I told her that I could be a man. After all, was she not right? What if she were unjust? Was such a creature as I am fit to be the husband of a pure woman? See the thing I have become in less than a month. Might I not, if I had married her, have become tired of my new rÔle, and drifted? Well, if I had I should have dragged her with me. Did I really love her? Did I not love myself all the time? It was not of her I thought. It was all of my miserable, sordid little self. Still, if there is an Almighty, He made a mistake in treating me so! But there, as though an Almighty cared about such as I. If He does, He regards us all as a part of a grim joke."

"I'nt got a bit a bacca on yer, 'ave yer, guv'nor?"

A man rose from a seat as he spoke, and shivered. At the other end of the seat lay a woman asleep.

"I cawn't sleep, I'm so bloomin' cold," went on the man, "and I'm just dyin' for a bit a bacca."

"Why do you try to sleep here?" asked Leicester.

"'Cause I in't got no weers else, guv'nor. That's why. Besides, my hinsides is empty, and yer cawn't sleep when yer empty. Tell yer, I'm fair sick on it."

"Why don't you make an end of it?"

"Wot yer mean?"

Leicester pointed to the river.

"Would for tuppence," said the man.

Leicester put his hand in his pocket and took out the first coin he felt. It was a two-shilling piece.

"Here's a dozen tuppences," he said; "now let's see if you've got the pluck."

The man snatched at the coin, examined it in the light of the lamp, and spat on it. Then he went to the woman and shook her.

"Cum on, Mord," he said.

"Weer?" said the woman sleepily.

"Daan ter ole Jerry's doss-aas."

"We cawn't; we in't got fo'pence."

"Yus, we 'as; a swell hev chucked me two bob. Cum on."

The woman rose and prepared to follow the man.

"But you told me——"

"That I'd do it for tuppence, but not fer two bob, guv'nor. Goo'-night, and thenk yer."

Leicester laughed. He had not expected the man to throw himself into the river; indeed, had he attempted it, he would most likely have stopped him; but he laughed all the same. Two shillings meant food and a warm place to lie, and the tramp clung to life.

"We are all such cowards," he said, as he walked on towards Blackfriars Bridge. The great space outside Blackfriars underground railway station was empty. Not a soul was to be seen. He crossed to the road at the end of the bridge, and stood at the top of the steps which led down to the river.

"I'll look at it closer," he said. "It'll be fun to stand and watch the dirty stuff sweep on to the sea."

He went down the granite steps which led to the river, and crept under the barrier that was placed halfway down. It felt much colder as he came close to the water, and the sudden roll of the river sounded awesome. A few steps from the bottom he stopped.

"If there was any good in living!" he said. "But there isn't. What lies before me? I am a hopeless, purposeless, whisky-sodden fool. There's nothing to live for."

He went nearer the river.

His attention was drawn to a shapeless something which the river had swept to the bottom step, and which, as the tide had receded, had left lying there. He went closer to it and examined it.

It was the dead body of a man.

He turned quickly and retraced his steps, and then stopped.

"He's had the pluck to do it," he muttered; "he must have thrown himself in farther up the river. The tide has washed him there and left him stranded. Poor beggar, I wonder who he is?"

He went down again and looked at the gruesome thing lying there. He lay in the shadow of the bridge, and the moon's rays did not reach him.

"I wonder who he is," repeated Leicester.

Almost mechanically, and with a steady hand, he struck a match and examined the body.

"It might have been me," he muttered. "About my own age and build. His clothes are good, too. I suppose this thing was what is called a gentleman." He laughed quietly and grimly. A sort of gruesome curiosity possessed him, and a wild fancy flashed into his mind. "I wonder if he's left any mark of his identity?" he said, whereupon he lit another match and made a closer examination. Yes, the thing's hands belonged to what was once a man of leisure. It is true they were discoloured and swollen, but they had been carefully manicured. Without a shudder he examined the pockets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in them—not even a pocket-handkerchief. The shirt was fastened at the wrists by a pair of gold sleeve-links, but they bore no marks of any sort. He unfastened the links and looked at the inside of the cuffs, but there was no name written on them. He fastened them again. He examined the dead man's collar. Again it was without name. Evidently the suicide had taken trouble to leave no traces of his identity behind.

He took another look at the face. Yes, it might have been himself, if he had been in the water a long time. It was the face of a young man, as far as he could judge, between thirty and forty. It was clean-shaven, too, just as his own was. It was true it was much distorted and discoloured; evidently the poor wretch had been in the water for days.

Almost mechanically he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. The light was bright enough to show him that his own name was in the corner.

"It might be me, it might be me," he repeated again and again.

There was a sort of fascination in the thought.

"If twenty-four hours ago, or forty-eight hours ago, I had thrown myself into the river, and ever since had been rolled about by the muddy waters, I should be like that, just like that. Only he is nameless; there are no means of identifying him. Well, what's the odds?"

He started, as though some one had struck him.

"Why shouldn't it be?"

In a moment he saw the possibilities of the thought.

"Yes, why shouldn't it? To-morrow morning some one will come down these steps, and then the police will take the poor wretch to a mortuary, after which there will be the usual fiasco of an inquest. As there are no marks by which to identify him, hosts of stupid questions will be asked. After that—he will be forgotten, unless some one comes to claim him. But why shouldn't I become——?"

His eyes flashed with a new light. He was no longer cold and calm. He was eager, excited.

He listened eagerly. All was silent, save for a rumbling noise which he heard some distance away. He felt his pockets carefully. Yes, here was an old letter; it would do perfectly. He soaked it in the muddy waters of the river and crumpled it. It had the appearance of being in the river for days. He put the letter in the dead man's pocket.

Again he wiped his hands, and listened. Then he took the handkerchief he had used and dipped it in the river. It became saturated with the waters of the Thames. Yes, that would strengthen the chain of identity. He put the handkerchief in another pocket of the dead man's clothes. Was there anything else he needed to do? No. He had examined the poor wretch, and there was nothing on him by which it could be known who he was. Now, the mystery would be made clear. A letter addressed to Radford Leicester, Esq., was in his pocket; a handkerchief also bearing his name would be found on his person. He gave the body a parting glance and came up the steps.

"Poor beggar, I wonder who he is, after all?" he said. "Anyhow, if there is any secret to learn, the thing that was he has learned it. He had the pluck, I hadn't; but, after all, it has given me an idea."

By the time he reached the top step he was to all outward appearances calm again. For a moment he hesitated, and then walked up New Bridge Street.

A policeman passed him and gave him a suspicious glance, but, seeing a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man, said nothing.

"Good-night, constable."

"Good-night, sir; out late."

"Yes, rather." He was tempted to tell the man what he had seen, but did not yield to it. It was far better to say nothing. So they passed on, he towards Ludgate Circus, the policeman towards Blackfriars Bridge.

When he reached his solitary room he sat down and began to think. What he had done appeared to him in the light of a grim joke, and he wondered what the result of it would be. There was something intensely interesting in the thought of what would be said when the body was found on the following morning. He was in a strange humour, and the events of the night had fallen in with it. Ever since the day on which he had left Taviton he had desired to hide himself from those who had hitherto known him, and the feeling had grown as the days went by. Why should he who, according to the world's standards, had disgraced himself at Taviton, appear before the empty-headed gossiping crew he had known? He had played his old acquaintances a trick now. What would they say when they heard the news?

He thought of Olive Castlemaine. What would she say? Had she forgotten him? he wondered. No, no, that could not be. The woman who had cared enough about him to promise to be his wife could not forget him so easily.

Oh, but this was a joke, a joke he really enjoyed. Let all those who knew him be fooled! He laughed at the thought of it, and there was a sort of bitter pleasure in his heart as he went to bed.

The following day the old woman who swept his room and did odd jobs for him came in the ordinary way. She had not the slightest idea who he was. If some one told her that he was Radford Leicester, it would have meant nothing to her. She knew nothing, and cared just as little about the doings of the world. If she met him in the street she would not have recognised him; she was too blind.

"Want me any more to-day?" she asked as she was leaving.

"No—yes," said Leicester; "you might come about half-past six to-night. I may want you, and will you bring me an evening newspaper?"

"All right. Which? there's so many on 'em."

"Oh, it does not matter. Bring half a dozen. You can get them off the man who stands at the corner of the top of Chancery Lane."

"'L right," she said, taking the sixpence he gave her.

Throughout the rest of the day he sat alone, still thinking and brooding. When evening came he looked impatiently at his watch. He was anxious to see the evening newspapers.

The old woman did not come till seven o'clock.

"Here are the papers," she said; "anything you want me to do?"

"Yes, go out and buy a chop, and then bring it back and grill it."

The woman took the money for the chop, nodded, and went away without a word. Leicester opened one of the newspapers eagerly.

He had no need to search long for what he wanted to find. Almost the first paragraph which caught his eye was about himself. He laughed aloud as he read it. Truly, it was a grim joke.

"This morning, at early dawn, as a police constable was passing over Blackfriars Bridge, he looked over the parapet and saw something which appeared to him as a strange-looking object lying on one of the steps which lead down to the river. On going nearer, he found it was the body of a dead man, which to all appearance had been in the river some time, and had been carried to the steps by the outgoing tide, and left stranded there. The constable whistled, and was immediately joined by two others. The body was taken to the —— mortuary. On examination, two proofs of the man's identity were found. The first was a letter, and the other a handkerchief bearing the deceased's name in the corner. But for these two things it would have been impossible to identify him, as the face is distorted and swollen beyond all recognition. It is with great regret that we have to state that both the letter and the handkerchief bore the name of Radford Leicester. Many of our readers will have known Mr. Radford Leicester by repute. After a brilliant career at Oxford, he eventually became Parliamentary candidate for Taviton, and many prophesied that his splendid abilities would take him high in the councils of the nation. He became engaged to a charming young lady of wealth and position, but although the wedding-day was fixed, the marriage never took place. Whatever the reason for this, it is believed that it unhinged the late gentleman's mind. Since the sad circumstances which took place in Taviton, and which were recorded in the daily press some time ago, Mr. Leicester has not been seen, and until the sad discovery of this morning, no one had any idea of his whereabouts. The deceased gentleman was a man of few friends, and until his engagement lived very much the life of a recluse. It is with great sorrow that we record the above, as it was fully hoped and believed that he would not only have a very distinguished future, but that he would have been of great value to his country."

Leicester threw down the paper.

"Good," he said; "everything is turning out exactly as I thought."

He read the other papers, and found that each gave very nearly the same version. One moralised at some length on the sad end of the deceased, and enlarged on the evils of drinking.

It was a strange experience, this reading of his own obituary notices, but it agreed with his mood. He had not enjoyed himself so much for a long time.

He did not leave the house. He determined to do nothing which might shake any one's belief in the farce that was being played. He would see the mockery out to the bitter end. This was not long in coming. The inquest was held without delay, and the early impressions were confirmed. It was a case of circumstantial evidence. Radford Leicester had hinted at suicide to the proprietor of the Red Lion Hotel, Taviton. Since that time he had not been seen alive by any who had previously known him. He had also left Taviton in disgrace, his political career being blighted, while it was commonly believed that Miss Castlemaine had refused to marry him because she had discovered something disgraceful in his life. His drinking habits were known to many. Therefore, when a body was discovered, and on it two proofs of its identity, the jury could come to no other conclusion than they did.

Moreover, a strange coincidence took place at the inquest. The solicitor of Radford Leicester appeared, bearing a document signed by the said Radford Leicester, stating his desire that, in the event of his death, his property should be allowed to accumulate for ten years from the date of his decease, and should then be given to Guy's Hospital. This solicitor was an old man of the name of Mr. Flipp, an exceedingly eccentric but a much respected member of the profession nevertheless.

Accordingly a verdict of suicide while in an unsound condition of mind was brought in; and orders were given that the body should be buried, the expenses to be paid out of the deceased gentleman's estate.

Leicester went to the funeral. Mr. Flipp was there, together with Winfield and two or three others with whom he had been on terms of intimacy. He had so disguised himself that no suspicion was aroused, and he stood quite near the grave when the service was read.

He could have laughed aloud. No grimmer joke was ever perpetrated. He looked curiously at the by-standers, and watched the expression on their faces. Mr. Flipp's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx. Winfield looked very thoughtful; the others seemed to pay but little heed.

"A product of heredity, environment, and hard lines," said Winfield to his companion as he accompanied him to the carriage.

"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.

The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.

"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in this fashion."

When he got outside the cemetery he passed by a newsagent's shop, and noticed the placards on the board outside:

"THE CURSE OF DRINK: SAD END OF A BRILLIANT YOUNG POLITICIAN"

He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the article, which had used him for its text.

"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."

"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried. After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public. Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place. Now I must carry my plans into effect."