some ideas he had. Or whether he would pursue the young Joy, the
fugitive actuality, to the very threshold of the dawn. Whether, in
short, he would make a night of it.

He was aroused by the sound of a box-door opening and shutting; and a
shining shirt-front and a shining face darted suddenly into the light.
At the same moment a voice hailed him.

"Hello, Razors! That you?"

Voice, face, and shining shirt-front belonged to Mr. Richard
Pilkington, Financial Agent, of Shaftesbury Avenue.

"Razors" was the name by which Rickman was known to his intimates in
subtle allusion to his youth. He responded sulkily to the hail. Dicky
Pilkington was the last person he desired to meet. For he owed Dicky a
certain sum, not large, but larger than he could conveniently pay, and
Dicky was objectionable for other reasons. He had mysterious relations
with the Management of the Jubilee Theatre, and consequently unlimited
facilities of access to Miss Poppy Grace. Besides, there was something
about him that was deadly to ideas.

Ideas or no ideas, Mr. Pilkington was not to be evaded. He bore down
on Rickman, shining genially, and addressed him with an air of banter.

"Couldn't have arranged it better. You're the very fellow I want."

There was a suggestion of a chuckle in his voice which sent Rickman's
thoughts flying fearfully to his last I.O.U. The alert mind of
Pilkington followed their flight. He was intensely amused. He always