He appeared to have lost his way, which of itself was natural enough considering all things. He stopped every now and then, and paused, obviously in doubt which way to turn. As he stood deliberating, a small figure emerged, as it were, from nowhere—a very ragged imp—and huskily demanded,
"Wot the blazes 'e was arter?"
Then the gentleman addressed the small figure:
"What bridge is this?" he asked, through the muffler which was tight around his neck.
"It's wuth a tanner, any way, m'lord," answered the boy—such a ragged, stunted, evil-looking boy, true product of the London mud.
Respectability felt instinctively that it was face to face with Iniquity, and that, too, in no very choice neighbourhood, and in a thick fog to boot. Respectability therefore took counsel for a moment, and in the end produced a coin.
Iniquity snatched it, bit it, and spat upon it—why this latter it is difficult to say—through all of which tests the coin seemingly emerged triumphant. It was pocketed, and the sought-for information was hoarsely supplied.
"It's Wat'loo Bridge, m'lord."
Then he vanished into the fog like a dismissed spirit.
The elderly gentleman groped his way on, ever keeping touch of the stone balustrade. Suddenly he started at the sound of a shrill whistle. He quickened his step, for he knew not what such a call might portend, and he had no fancy for being the means of supplying the breakfast-table next morning with sensational matter.
Yet as he moved quickly over the sticky pavement, there came upon him the feeling that he was being followed. What if the boy were a pilot-fish, and had returned to direct the shark towards his prey, and the shark were close at his heels now? The thought was disquieting, and took strong hold of him. He looked round for a policeman, forgetful in his apprehension of the fog. At last he took to his heels. Such a thing it was safe to say he had not done for years, and those years had had their say, as was quickly demonstrated, for he got no further than the centre of the bridge. There a murky halo of light was some small comfort. He paused. What was it he heard? Hurried footsteps surely! His blood seemed more than ever to chill, and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. It struck him that this sort of thing was very bad for him. He clutched at his umbrella for want of any stouter weapon. Almost as he did so, a man lunged from out the darkness, and grasped him by the throat.
That grasp meant murder, and he knew it. A hundred trivialities flitted through his mind, as he had always been told they did in face of death. He managed to look round, though choking and gasping as he was, he could not cry for help. And now it came, as all else had come, apparently from nowhere—unaccountably.
A woman rushed up and flung herself on the arm that was strangling him. As in a dream he heard what she said.
"No, Jabez. No—let him go, let him go!"
"Miriam!"
The hand relaxed its grip, and its victim fell on the pavement.
"You here? Get out of it, can't you?"
"No, I will not. Leave the man alone I tell you. Would you murder him?"
"Yes—for your sake. Aren't you starving—aren't we both starving? Curse him. I'll have his watch anyhow. Ah, would you!" (There was evidence of some slight show of resistance on the part of Respectability, who was now gathering together his scattered senses.) "Do that and I'll squeeze the life out of you!"
A flutter of skirts and a rush. Then the sound of the woman's voice—a refined voice—raised as in desperation.
"Jabez, Jabez! I'm on the parapet, Jabez, and I swear if you do not leave him I will throw myself into the river!"
"Miriam, come down I say, come down."
"Only if you leave him!"
"Damn him then; let him go to the devil!"
With this he kicked the worthy citizen, who retaliated by suddenly regaining power of speech, and calling loudly for aid.
Then the pilot-fish came in sight again.
"Nab his ticker!" he yelled.
"No, no; let him go!"
The woman leapt down, and held them both at bay.
"Go," she cried. "Go—the police!"
At which Respectability breathed a heartfelt "Amen."
"Slit 'is bloomin' whistle," said the small boy, who was as uncompromising as he was impolite. He made off followed by the shark. The worthy member of society, assisted by the woman, scrambled to his feet. Then the gloom suddenly became illumined by the rays from a lantern—an unmistakably official lantern.
"Hullo, wot's all this?"
"Constable!" gasped the rescued one, "constable, I have been violently assaulted, and robbed of——"
"No, not robbed," interrupted the woman called Miriam, pointing to his chain.
"Oh, it's your little game, is it?" said the one having authority, bringing his light to bear upon her. "Let's 'ave a look at you—a bad lot 'less I'm much mistaken. Better give 'er in charge, sir."
"No, no, my man, on the contrary, I am very much indebted to this good lady!"
"Lady, lady! Oh, yes, she's a real lady, she is, an' no mistake."
"At all events, officer, to her intervention I owe my life, so it will be well if you refrain from alluding to her in that way."
The woman ignored the policeman, and turned to the man she had saved.
"I must leave you now," she said calmly. "The constable will no doubt see you safely home—for a consideration."
X103 scowled. He did not like things put thus brutally. He was a trifle subdued too by the elderly gentleman's attitude, which despite his deplorable plight had not been devoid of pomposity, not to say dignity. He felt he was a little bit out of his beat. It was quite right that he should see the gentleman safely on his way home—it was more than probable, too, that he would be offered a suitable reward for so doing. It would not be for him to refuse such reward, no matter what form it might take. So mused X103. He still continued to direct his bull's-eye toward the woman. He could see her face clearly, so could the elderly gentleman, who, he had been quick to notice, wore a fur coat. It was a queer affair. The woman winced under his scrutiny.
"Red 'air, black eyes!" muttered the constable. "I'll swear she's a bad 'un."
The elderly gentleman did not again rebuke him. Even in such circumstances he was not one to hear what was not meant for his hearing. He thought the woman's face was a remarkable one, emaciated, pallid, and hunted in expression though it was. Those dark eyes seemed doubly large by contrast with the sunken cheeks—sunken for sure, by the ravages of direst want. The locks of auburn hair, which fell on either side of that low white forehead, could not hide the many lines of care and misery with which it was imprinted. She was gaunt and wasted too; her hands were as bird's claws, and she leaned heavily, almost lifelessly, against the stonework of the bridge. Starvation, outward and inward, was there in all its hideousness, having driven beauty far afield, and left the bare suggestion of what had been, as if to accentuate the more the horrible completeness of its work. Starvation was there in that uncertain, hesitating manner—starvation in the very shawl clutched strenuously with one hand to her bosom—starvation, which, having worn the body, strove now to break the spirit.
But the spirit was strong in the woman, and while she was mute, she was still defiant. She met the gaze of the policeman now,