Richard Frencham Altar awoke betimes—as a fact he had been disturbed when the four o'clock patrol came round but subsequently slept for another spell. In the shuffle up he had changed the order of his companions and as he opened his eyes for the second time he found himself beside an old lady, generously skirted and shawled, who wore a hat from which the bare quills of several ostrich feathers pointed this way and that in raffish confusion. In her lap was a sack containing her various possessions. Richard watched dreamily as she emptied its contents upon the pavement and sorted them out in some kind of order. The proceeding was vaguely reminiscent of a barrack room kit inspection. So far as he could judge she was separating wardrobe from larder, the two having become painfully confused during the preceding day's march. To one inexpert in such matters it would have been hard to decide which was eatable and which wearable, and Richard observed the operation with a mixture of amusement and disgust. Having discovered her breakfast and selected a piece of rag to act as napkin, tablecloth, and subsequently a face towel, the old lady restored the remainder of her effects to the 'valise' and fell to. Noticing Richard was awake she addressed him in a singularly soprano voice.

"I'm up a bit early today," she remarked and added "Lovely air, isn't it?"

The unexpected aestheticism of the remark robbed him of speech. Ho had looked for mutterings or execrations but instead here was amiability and appreciation overriding adversity. A powerful desire possessed him to shake hands with his new acquaintance, but he did not risk it, being unacquainted with the proper etiquette of the benches. Recovering his composure he agreed about the pleasant quality of the air and threw in a word of praise for the sparrows.

"Dear little things," said the old lady over the grey crust to which she was applying a single tooth. Having gnawed off a corner she threw a glance at him. "Just come down?" she questioned.

Richard nodded.

"My first night," he said, "and I've rarely spent a better, though I confess I should enjoy a shave and a wash."

"There's a bit of mirror in the tobacconist," she nodded over her shoulder. "I often freshen up in front of it when the mood takes me. Many's the hat I've changed before that glass. But then I don't bother much these days." Once again her critical glance came in his direction. "After a time one loses interest, y'know."

The sentiment struck Richard chillily.

"And yet," he said, "you appear to have kept in touch with cheerfulness."

"Ah, but I'm old," she answered, "and to old people one thing's as good as another. But if I was you I wouldn't be content."

"I've no intention of being content," he said. "I just happen to have hit the rocks but I'll get sailing again one of these days."

"Well I'm glad to hear you say so, and now I must toddle along."

He asked what employment could engage her at so early an hour.

"I'm going to pick over the dustbins in Bond Street," she returned, and added "You never know what you'll find. Only you must be early. Goo' morning." And with a sunny smile the disreputable old thing shuffled away warbling a snatch of song as she went.

"By Jove," said Richard, "I suppose that's about what I'm doing—picking over dustbins and wondering what I shall find."

He looked across the park to where the golden orb of the sun was rising over the tree tops and lifted his hat in salutation.

"Good morning, day," he said. "Your servant to command. Gad! but I could do with some breakfast."

He rose and walked briskly toward Knightsbridge. The coffee stall by Hyde Park Corner attracted his attention. A few early carters and an occasional loafer were gathered about it and the smell of victuals was tempting. Richard noticed the driver of a large dray was leaning against the railings pouring tea into the saucer of his cup. He was a big man and his apparel was conspicuous by the fact that he wore a collar but no tie. The omission suggested an idea.

"Do you want a tie by any chance?" Richard asked and listened to a highly decorated ambition to know what he was talking about.

"Only this," he answered. "I've a notion I could do with some breakfast and it occurred to me as you might like to buy me one in exchange for a perfectly good Etonian tie."

For a space the driver examined Richard's necktie in thoughtful silence and his expression softened.

"I reckon that 'ud suit me," he observed judicially.

"It would," said Richard, "and a hard boiled egg would suit me with a cup of coffee to moisten it."

Somehow the absence of a tie seemed to ease the passage of the simple fare down his gullet and Richard felt twice his own man as he turned jubilantly into the park and swung along the lower walk. The breakfast had heartened him and he was ready to face the future with a bold front.

"I'll take a bit of a constitutional," he said, "and later on roll round to a labour bureau and see what's doing."

He paused for a moment by the rails of Rotten Row and watched some early horsemen canter by. In one of them he recognised an old acquaintance and instinctively covered the lower half of his face with his hand. His chin felt prickly to the touch for his beard had grown rapidly during the night. As a scrupulous twice-a-day shaver his senses rebelled at the notion of weed upon his face. However, it was useless to lament over trifles like that.

"I know," he said to himself. "A dip in the Serpentine."

A quarter of an hour later he was cutting through the water with long powerful strokes. On returning to the shore he had the good fortune to borrow a cake of soap from another bather who appeared, from the modesty of his folded garments, to be in equally hazardous financial circumstances.

"To tell the honest truth," his new acquaintance confided, "I bagged that bit of soap from a Great Eastern Railway carriage. Managed to nip in and collar it when no one was looking. Suppose I'm a thief of sorts but a man loses self respect if he doesn't wash."

They sat side by side until the pale sunlight had partially dried them.

"You broke?" Richard queried.

The man shook his head seriously.

"No, I'm a millionaire," he replied, "only I haven't any money—not a bean. Spent it all making myself rich. Look at this."

He untied a string that circled his neck. (Richard had noticed the string and a small linen bag it supported.) He opened the bag and produced a piece of yellow metal about the size of a lump of sugar.

"It's gold," he said.

Richard agreed that it looked like gold and asked where he found it.

"I made it," came the astonishing reply. "You needn't worry, it is gold all right. Bear any test." He restored it to the bag. "Seems stupid," he went on, "that here am I, with the knowledge to command millions, and I haven't a sou in my pocket. Cheap process, too, once you've got the plant. Dirt cheap. 'Course it's getting the plant's the trouble. No one'll believe me. Disheartening. Took that sample to the Bank of England—they asked me where I bought it—bought it! Lord! Oh well—one of these days, I suppose. Meet again perhaps. G'bye."

And with a cheery wave of the hand he vaulted the railings and ran lightly across the grass.

"I'm damned," said Richard. "If a fellow like that can make gold it follows to reason I ought to be able to make good."

It was after nine o'clock when Richard turned down the Earl's Court Road. He stopped before a small sweet stuff shop, attracted by a card in the window which read, "Letters may be addressed here, 1d."

"I suppose a man, even in my circumstances, ought to have a town address," he argued. "After all, one never knows."

Accordingly he entered and registered under the modest name of John Tidd. To the little old lady who wrote it down in a small laundry book devoted to the purpose, he said he was probably going abroad and later might send a request to forward correspondence. It was a dignified and pleasant transaction although he was conscious of a feeling that he would have created a more agreeable impression had he retained his necktie.

Coming out of the shop he fell into line with the tide of city workers moving southward to the underground station. These were the nobility of commerce who picked up the reins of office at nine forty-five—persons of substance in no way to be confused with the eight-thirty worker. It was an honourable association to walk down the Earl's Court Road in such company. Richard swung along at an even gait with an important looking individual in a hard felt hat to the right of him and a stout gentleman with a King Edward beard to the left. The three entered Earl's Court Station abreast and approached the barrier, where Richard stepped aside and let them pass through. Leaning against the grill gates was a man reading a folded copy of the Daily Sketch. He looked at Richard for an instant, then looked again searchingly. The repeated action attracted Richard's notice and their eyes met.

"Hardly worth while, is it?" said the man.

"I beg your pardon," Richard returned.

"Oh, that's quite all right—but I really wouldn't bother with it." He pointed at the opening of Richard's waistcoat and smiled. "That's rather a sound notion—no tie—distracts the eye from looking too keenly at the face. You nearly passed me."

"To be perfectly frank," Richard answered, "I shouldn't have bought crÊpe if I had."

The man laughed.

"Getting pretty sick of it, aren't you?" he queried.

A sure conviction possessed Richard that he was in the presence of a lunatic.

"On the contrary," he replied, "I'm just beginning to enjoy myself."

"Well, well, there's no accounting for tastes. But I should have thought you'd have had enough of railway stations. Better go home and stay there."

Richard shook his head sympathetically.

"Try taking a little more soda in it," he suggested. "You'd be a different man inside a week. So long."

The watcher by the gate was smiling pleasantly to himself as Richard turned away.

It was nearly one o'clock when his wanderings brought him back to the neighbourhood of Piccadilly. He had spent the intervening hours, with little enough success, at the labour bureau in Westminster. From there he had walked across the Mall and found an empty bench under the trees in Green Park looking up Park Lane. He had hardly seated himself when he saw a man come out of a big doorway opposite and hurry eastward in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Even at the distance Richard had no difficulty in recognising the diner who overnight had nodded to him at the Berkeley.

"Half a mind to give him a shout," he thought, but on reflection "I don't know though, he seems in the deuce of a hurry and I can't imagine he's any work to give away."

It would have saved Cranbourne a lot of trouble if he had followed his first inclination.