sleeping in the same room with a total
stranger, did not present an attractive
prospect to him. He felt more than half-
inclined to drop his five shillings into his
pocket, and to go out into the street once
more.

"Is it yes, or no?" asked the landlord.
"Settle it us quick as you can, because there's
lots of people wanting a bed at Doncaster
tonight, besides you."

Arthur looked towards the court, and heard
the rain falling heavily in the street outside.
He thought he would ask a question or two
before he rashly decided on leaving the shelter
of The Two Robins.

"What sort of a man is it who has got the
other bed?" he inquired. "Is he a gentleman?
I mean, is he a quiet, well-behaved
person?"

"The quietest man I ever came across,"
said the landlord, rubbing his fat hands
stealthily one over the other. "As sober as
a judge, and as regular as clock-work in his
habits. It hasn't struck nine, not ten
minutes ago, and he's in his bed already. I
don't know whether that comes up to your
notion of a quiet man: it goes a long way
ahead of mine, I can tell you."

"Is he asleep, do you think?" asked
Arthur.

"I know he's asleep," returned the landlord.
"And what's more, he's gone off so
fast, that I'll warrant you don't wake him.
This way, sir," said the landlord, speaking
over young Holiday's shoulder, as if he
addressing some new guest who was approaching
the house.

"Here you are," said Arthur, determined
to be beforehand with the stranger, whoever
he might be. "I'll take the bed." And he
handed the five shillings to the landlord, who
nodded, dropped the money carelessly into
his waistcoat-pocket, and lighted a candle.

"Come up and see the room," said the
host of The Two Robins, leading the way to
the staircase quite briskly, considering how
fat he was.

They mounted to the second-floor of the
house. The landlord half opened a door,
fronting the landing, then stopped, and turned
round to Arthur.

"It's a fair bargain, mind, on my side as
well as on yours," he said. "You give me
five shillings, I give you in return a clean,
comfortable bed; and I warrant, beforehand,
that you won't be interfered with, or annoyed
in any way, by the man who sleeps in the
same room with you." Saying those words,
he looked hard, for a moment, in young
Holliday's face, and then led the way into the
room.

It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had
expected it would be. The two beds stood
parallel with each other—a space of about
six feet intervening between them. They
were both of the same medium size, and both
had the same plain white curtains, made to
draw, if necessary, all round them. The
occupied bed was the bed nearest the window.
The curtains were all drawn round this, except
the half curtain at the bottom, on the
side of the bed farthest from the window.
Arthur saw the feet of the sleeping man
raising the scanty clothes into a sharp little
eminence, as if he was lying flat on his back.
He took the candle, and advanced softly to
draw the curtain—stopped half way, and
listened for a moment—then turned to the
landlord.

"He is a very quiet sleeper," said Arthur.

"Yes," said the landlord, "very quiet."

Young Holliday advanced with the candle,
and looked in at the man cautiously.

"How pale he is!" said Arthur.

"Yes," returned the landlord, "pale enough, isn't he?"

Arthur looked closer at the man. The
bed-clothes were drawn up to his chin, and
they lay perfectly still over the region of his
chest. Surprised and vaguely startled, as he
noticed this, Arthur stooped down closer over
the stranger; looked at his ashy, parted lips;
listened breathlessly for an instant; looked
again at the strangely still face, and the
motionless lips and chest; and turned round
suddenly on the landlord, with his own cheeks
as pale for the moment as the hollow cheeks
of the man on the bed.

"Come here," he whispered, under his
breath. " Come here, for God's sake! The
man's not asleep—he is dead!"

"You have found that out sooner than I
thought you would," said the landlord
composedly. "Yes, he's dead, sure enough. He
died at five o'clock to-day."

"How did he die? Who is he?" asked
Arthur, staggered for the moment by the
audacious coolness of the answer.

"As to who is he," rejoined the landlord,
"I know no more about him than you do.
There are his books and letters and things,
all sealed up in that brown paper parcel, for
the Coroner's inquest to open tomorrow or
next day. He's been here a week, paying
his way fairly enough, and stopping indoors,
for the most part, as if he was ailing. My
girl brought him up his tea at five to-day;
and as he was pouring of it out, he fell down
in a faint, or a fit, or a compound of both,
for anything I know. We could not bring
him to- and I said he was dead. And the
doctor couldn't bring him to- and the doctor
said he was dead. And there he is. And
the Coroner's inquest's coming as soon as it
can. And that's as much as I know about
it."

Arthur held the candle close to the man's
lips. The flame still burnt straight up, as
steadily as ever. There was a moment of
silence; and the rain pattered drearily
through it against the panes of the window.

"If you haven't got nothing more to say
to me," continued the landlord, "I suppose I
may go. You don't expect your five shillings