It was not much more than a quarter of an hour’s walk, but pain and fear made the distance seem long; he went out of his way, too, for the sake of avoiding places that were too well lighted.  The chief occupation of his thoughts was in conjecturing what could have led to Bartley’s arrest.  Had the fellow been such a fool as to attempt passing a bad coin when he carried others of the same kind in his pocket?  Or had the arrest of some other ‘pal’ in some way thrown suspicion on Jack?  Be it as it might, the game was up.  With the usual wisdom which comes too late, Bob asked himself how he could ever have put trust in Bartley, whom he knew to be as mean-spirited a cur as breathed.  On the chance of making things easier for himself, Jack would betray every secret in his possession.  What hope was there of escaping capture, even if a hiding-place could be found for a day or two?  If he had his hand on Jack Bartley’s gizzard

Afraid to appear afraid, in dread lest his muddy clothing should attract observation, he kept, as often as possible, the middle of the road, and with relief saw at length the narrow archway, with its descending steps, which was one entrance to Shooter’s Gardens.  As usual, two or three loafers were hanging about here, exchanging blasphemies and filthy vocables, but, even if they recognised him, there was not much fear of their giving assistance to the police.  With head bent he slouched past them, unchallenged.  At the bottom of the steps, where he was in all but utter darkness, his foot slipped on garbage of some kind, and with a groan he fell on his aide.

‘Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,’ cried a high-pitched voice from close by.

Bob knew that the speaker was the man notorious in this locality as Mad Jack.  Raising himself with difficulty, he looked round and saw a shape crouching in the corner.

‘What is the principal thing?’ continued the crazy voice.  ’Wisdom is the principal thing.’

And upon that followed a long speech which to Bob sounded as gibberish, but which was in truth tolerably good French, a language Mad Jack was fond of using, though he never made known how he had acquired it.

Bob stumbled on, and quickly came to the house where be hoped to find a refuge.  The door was, of course, open; he went in and groped his way up the staircase.  A knock at the door of the room which he believed to be still tenanted by Mrs. Candy and her son brought no reply.  He turned the handle, but found that the door was locked.

It was not late, only about ten o’clock.  Stephen Candy could not, of course, be back yet from his work, and the woman was probably drinking somewhere.  But he must make sure that they still lived here.  Going down to the floor below, he knocked at the room occupied by the Hope family, and Mrs. Hope, opening the door a few inches, asked his business.

‘Does Mrs. Candy still live upstairs?’ he inquired in a feigned voice, and standing back in the darkness.