a gathering of smart people. A lady looking at him through raised
lorgnettes turned and whispered something with a smile to her
companion - once before he had heard an audible titter from a
little group of loiterers. He returned the glance with a
lightning-like look of diabolical fierceness, and, turning round,
stood upon the curbstone and called a hansom.

A sense of depression swept over him as he was driven through the
crowded streets towards Waterloo. The half-scornful, half-earnest
prophecy, to which he had listened years ago in a squalid African
hut, flashed into his mind. For the first time he began to have
dim apprehensions as to his future. All his life he had been a
toiler, and joy had been with him in the fierce combat which he had
waged day by day. He had fought his battle and he had won - where
were the fruits of his victory? A puny, miserable little creature
like Dickenson could prate of happiness and turn a shining face to
the future - Dickenson who lived upon a pittance, who depended upon
the whim of his employer, and who confessed to ambitions which
were surely pitiable. Trent lit a fresh cigar and smiled; things
would surely come right with him - they must. What Dickenson could
gain was surely his by right a thousand times over.

He took the train for Walton, travelling first class, and treated
with much deference by the officials on the line. As he alighted
and passed through the booking-hall into the station-yard a voice
hailed him. He looked up sharply. A carriage and pair of horses
was waiting, and inside a young woman with a very smart hat and a
profusion of yellow hair.

"Come on, General," she cried. "I've done a skip and driven down