before the person in authority. This should be
brought to a crisis.

About every five minutes, either Black Beard
or Red Beard looked in from the outside, in their
progress along the footboard, stared at me for
some moments, and disappeared. It was
outrageous. But no matter. Meanwhile I was
still dilapidated, ruined, dishevelled, and draggled.
I knew my appearance to be abject and
repulsive; and yet I was denied an opportunity
of getting into any smooth respectable shape.
My little pocket-glass showed me an odious
spectacle. At last here was the station. I was
to "descend," as they called it. It was Malines,
Bruges, Brussels—no matter where it was. It
makes no difference in the interest of this narrative.
None in the least. All I have to say is,
that—O moment of degradation and humiliation!
—as the "convoy" (that I believe to be
the correct phrase) glided in, I distinctly saw
the face of the Idol, with a female friend of the
Idol's, and a male friend of the Idol's, standing
there on the platform, scanning the interior of
the carriages with a scrutinising gaze.

With a spasmodic motion, I buried my face
in a handkerchief, to escape recognition.
Perhaps I was too late. Most likely I was. On
second thoughts I was not, for I laughed grimly
at the notion. The squalor and neglect with
which I was as it were begrimed, had no doubt
done their work of disguise but too well. Ha!
ha!

They were scrutinising the interiors eagerly.
They were high up. They would soon be low
down. Stay. There was one last chance. What
if there were some quiet nook, some off-shoot to
the refreshment-room, where a wretched hunted
persecuted passenger might enjoy, say ten
minutes' solitude, and might shave, or scrape,
with or without water.

They had turned and were coming down. In
a second I had bounded from the carriage. In
the shock I rebounded against a Belgian officer
in spectacles, who fell heavily. I learned afterwards
that his spectacles were broken on the
asphalt. I did not stay to pick him up. I was
considered a brutal Englishman. No matter. I
still urged on my headlong career. Here was
the refreshment-room filled with hungry crowds,
and here a little to the left was a door. Quietly
and without noise, I opened it; there was a
passage, and beyond the passage a door. I
opened the door, and discovered a pretty little
room—a bedroom. Possibly the station-master's;
not impossible the station-master's wife's drawing-
room, for there were lace and muslin on the
glass, and there was a little girl of about five
years old on a stool at the fire, reading a picture-
book. A pretty picture of childish innocence!
Was ever mortal man so fortunate! No one
had followed: I was unobserved: everything
favoured: there was a kettle singing on the
hob. This last interposition seemed almost
miraculous. Hot water ready. It was
marvellous. Without a second's delay I took off
my handkerchief, threw back my collar, bared
my throat, and got out my sole surviving razor.
In a few minutes it would be over, and
then——

The child began to cry—howl, perhaps, would
be more the correct term. I had noted a scared
look on the child's part when I first entered. No
wonder; it was pardonable in the child. I
appalled it into silence by seizing it by the arm, and
dealing it a ferocious glance, and then began to
whet my razor. Not a moment was to be lost.
I got some hot water from the kettle, bared my
throat once more, threw back my head, and——
The child began to howl dismally once more. It
was too annoying. Trying to assume the
furiousness of an ogre—just for the moment—I
rushed at it, caught it by the arm, and playfully
made passes at it with the razor. At that moment
the door was flung open, and Red Beard, Black
Beard, men in blouses, porters, women, and
passengers generally, all came rushing in. In an
instant Black Beard and Red Beard had me
each by an arm, and my sole surviving razor
was snatched from me. Worse than all, I saw
the Idol, and the two friends of the Idol, pointing
at me with something like horror.

There is no need to dwell on that painful
history. They—She—saw me in my degradation,
in the full measure of my degradation: squalid,
odious, repulsive, in the hands of the constituted
authorities. That wretched Red Beard
was my bane. He hated me because I had not
fee'd him abundantly. They tried to make up
some absurd story of my attempting my own
life with a razor, in a railway carriage; of my
being mad, and dangerous, and afterwards trying
to destroy a young child with the same deadly
instrument. I did not mind their charges, not
in the least. What I did mind was the squalid
spectacle I presented to the Idol, who I saw
turn away from me with unconcealed disgust.
No wonder! Their interest and testimony as to
my saneness, saved me from any inconvenience:
but the Idol came out of the ordeal, changed.
She never got over that vision, she never was
the same to me afterwards. I cannot blame
her.