The magistrate ruled that he might. More, he would shake hands with him
himself. Summoning Mr. Buffin behind his desk, he proceeded to do so.
If there were more men like Mr. Buffin, London would be a better place.
It was the occasional discovery in our midst of ethereal natures like
that of Mr. Buffin which made one so confident for the future of the
race.

The paragon shuffled out. It was bright and sunny in the street, but in
Mr. Buffin's heart there was no sunlight. He was not a quick thinker,
but he had come quite swiftly to the conclusion that London was no
longer the place for him. Sid Marks had been in court chewing a straw
and listening with grave attention to the evidence, and for one moment
Mr. Buffin had happened to catch his eye. No medical testimony as to
the unhealthiness of London could have moved him more.

Once round the corner, he ran. It hurt his head to run, but there were
things behind him that could hurt his head more than running.

* * * * *

At the entrance to the Tube he stopped. To leave the locality he must
have money. He felt in his pockets. Slowly, one by one, he pulled forth
his little valuables. His knife ... his revolver ... the magistrate's
gold watch ... He inspected them sadly. They must all go.

He went into a pawnbroker's shop at the corner of the street. A few
moments later, with money in his pockets, he dived into the Tube.