oppressed him. The seedy figure crossed the road, fumbled for a minute
with a latchkey. Then nerveless footsteps ascended the stairs, passed the
door, and took their joyless way up and onward to the bed-sitting-room
immediately above.

Down below the music had ceased, while sounds arose suggestive of a
little playfulness on the part of the two young men in bidding their
hostess and Miss Eliza Hart good-night. Very soon the house became
silent. But Dominic Iglesias, though tired, was in no humour for sleep.
He drew forward a leather-covered armchair and sat near the open window,
in at which came a breathing of night wind. This was soothing, touching
his forehead as with delicate pressure of a cool and sympathetic hand; so
that, without any sense of surprising transition, he found himself in the
garden of the little house in Holland Street, Kensington, once again. The
laburnum was in full blossom, and the breeze uplifted the light drooping
branches of it, making all their golden glory dance in the sunshine.
There must have been rain in the night, too, for the stone basin was full
of water, in which the sparrows were busy washing, sending up tiny
iridescent jets and fountains from their swiftly fluttering wings. It was
delicious to Dominic. He felt very safe, very gay. Only a heavy ill-
favoured tabby cat came from nowhere. It had designs upon the sparrows.
Twice it climbed stealthily up the broken bricks and gas clinkers. Twice
the little boy drove it away. It was not a nice cat. It had a broad white
face, deceitful little eyes, and grey whiskers. It declared it only
caught sparrows for their good and for the good of the community. It
assured Dominic he was guilty of a grave error of judgment in attempting
to interfere. It said a great deal about moral responsibility and the
heavy obligations persons of wealth and position owe to themselves.

Just then Pascal Pelletier, carrying a square Huntley Palmer's biscuit