morning," he muttered, when he came to a standstill once more. "Look
here, Burton, I don't want to do anything rash. Go home--never mind the
time--go home this minute before I break out again. Come to-morrow
morning, as usual. We'll talk it out then. God bless my soul!" he
added, as Burton picked up his hat with a little sigh of relief and
turned toward the door. "Either I'm drunk or the fellow's got religion
or something! I never heard such infernal rubbish in my life!"

"Made a nasty remark about my tie just now, sir," Clarkson said, with
dignity, as his senior disappeared. "Quite uncalled for. I don't fancy
he can be well."

"Ever known him like it before?" Mr. Waddington inquired.

"Never, sir. I thought he seemed chippier than ever this morning when
he went out. His last words were that he'd bet me a packet of Woodbines
that he landed the old fool."

"He's gone dotty!" the auctioneer decided, as he turned back towards his
sanctum. "He's either gone dotty or he's been drinking. The last chap
in the world I should have thought it of!"


The mental attitude of Alfred Burton, as he emerged into the street, was
in some respects curious. He was not in the least sorry for what had
happened. On the contrary, he found himself wishing that the day's
respite had not been granted to him, and that his departure from the
place of his employment was final. He was very much in the position of
a man who has been transferred without warning or notice from the
streets of London to the streets of Pekin. Every object which he saw he