spread a softly radiant halo. This vision did not long occupy his
thoughts, but at intervals he again looked upward, to dream for a
moment on the silvery splendour and on that wide halo dim-glimmering
athwart the track of stars.



CHAPTER III


Instead of making for the railway station, to take a train back to
Dudley, he crossed from the northern to the southern extremity of
the town, and by ten o'clock was in one of the streets which lead
out of Moseley Road. Here, at a house such as lodges young men in
business, he made inquiry for "Mr. Narramore," and was forthwith
admitted.

Robert Narramore, a long-stemmed pipe at his lips, sat by the
fireside; on the table lay the materials of a satisfactory supper--
a cold fowl, a ham, a Stilton cheese, and a bottle of wine.

"Hollo! You?" he exclaimed, without rising. "I was going to write to
you; thanks for saving me the trouble. Have something to eat?"

"Yes, and to drink likewise."

"Do you mind ringing the bell? I believe there's a bottle of
Burgundy left. If not, plenty of Bass."

He stretched forth a languid hand, smiling amiably. Narramore was