The young man buttoned up his coat with an hysterical little laugh.
Such ways were not his ways. They were not, indeed, within the
limit of his understanding. But of his partner he had learned one
thing, at least. The word of Stephen Laverick was the word of truth.
He shambled toward the door. On the whole, he was lucky to have
got the two hundred and fifty pounds.

"So long, Laverick," he said from the door. "I'm - I'm sorry."

It was characteristic of him that he did not venture to offer his
hand. Laverick nodded, not unkindly. After all, this young man was
as he had been made.

"I wish you good luck, Morrison," he said. "Try South Africa."




CHAPTER IX

ROBBING THE DEAD


The roar of the day was long since over. The rattle of vehicles,
the tinkling of hansom bells, the tooting of horns from motor-cars
and cabs, the ceaseless tramp of footsteps, all had died away.
Outside, the streets were almost deserted. An occasional wayfarer
passed along the flagged pavement with speedy footsteps. Here and
there a few lights glimmered at the windows of some of the larger