"Wot yer mean?"

Leicester pointed to the river.

"Would for tuppence," said the man.

Leicester put his hand in his pocket and took out the first coin he felt. It was a two-shilling piece.

"Here's a dozen tuppences," he said; "now let's see if you've got the pluck."

The man s.n.a.t.c.hed at the coin, examined it in the light of the lamp, and spat on it. Then he went to the woman and shook her.

"c.u.m on, Mord," he said.

"Weer?" said the woman sleepily.

"Daan ter ole Jerry's doss-aas."

"We cawn't; we in't got fo'pence."

"Yus, we 'as; a swell hev chucked me two bob. c.u.m on."

The woman rose and prepared to follow the man.

"But you told me----"

"That I'd do it for tuppence, but not fer two bob, guv'nor. Goo'-night, and thenk yer."

Leicester laughed. He had not expected the man to throw himself into the river; indeed, had he attempted it, he would most likely have stopped him; but he laughed all the same. Two shillings meant food and a warm place to lie, and the tramp clung to life.

"We are all such cowards," he said, as he walked on towards Blackfriars Bridge. The great s.p.a.ce outside Blackfriars underground railway station was empty. Not a soul was to be seen. He crossed to the road at the end of the bridge, and stood at the top of the steps which led down to the river.

"I'll look at it closer," he said. "It'll be fun to stand and watch the dirty stuff sweep on to the sea."

He went down the granite steps which led to the river, and crept under the barrier that was placed halfway down. It felt much colder as he came close to the water, and the sudden roll of the river sounded awesome. A few steps from the bottom he stopped.

"If there was any good in living!" he said. "But there isn't. What lies before me? I am a hopeless, purposeless, whisky-sodden fool. There's nothing to live for."

He went nearer the river.

His attention was drawn to a shapeless something which the river had swept to the bottom step, and which, as the tide had receded, had left lying there. He went closer to it and examined it.

It was the dead body of a man.

He turned quickly and retraced his steps, and then stopped.

"He's had the pluck to do it," he muttered; "he must have thrown himself in farther up the river. The tide has washed him there and left him stranded. Poor beggar, I wonder who he is?"

He went down again and looked at the gruesome thing lying there. He lay in the shadow of the bridge, and the moon's rays did not reach him.

"I wonder who he is," repeated Leicester.

Almost mechanically, and with a steady hand, he struck a match and examined the body.

"It might have been me," he muttered. "About my own age and build. His clothes are good, too. I suppose this thing was what is called a gentleman." He laughed quietly and grimly. A sort of gruesome curiosity possessed him, and a wild fancy flashed into his mind. "I wonder if he's left any mark of his ident.i.ty?" he said, whereupon he lit another match and made a closer examination. Yes, the thing's hands belonged to what was once a man of leisure. It is true they were discoloured and swollen, but they had been carefully manicured. Without a shudder he examined the pockets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in them--not even a pocket-handkerchief. The shirt was fastened at the wrists by a pair of gold sleeve-links, but they bore no marks of any sort. He unfastened the links and looked at the inside of the cuffs, but there was no name written on them. He fastened them again. He examined the dead man's collar. Again it was without name. Evidently the suicide had taken trouble to leave no traces of his ident.i.ty behind.

He took another look at the face. Yes, it might have been himself, if he had been in the water a long time. It was the face of a young man, as far as he could judge, between thirty and forty. It was clean-shaven, too, just as his own was. It was true it was much distorted and discoloured; evidently the poor wretch had been in the water for days.

Almost mechanically he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands.

The light was bright enough to show him that his own name was in the corner.

"It might be me, it might be me," he repeated again and again.

There was a sort of fascination in the thought.

"If twenty-four hours ago, or forty-eight hours ago, I had thrown myself into the river, and ever since had been rolled about by the muddy waters, I should be like that, just like that. Only he is nameless; there are no means of identifying him. Well, what's the odds?"

He started, as though some one had struck him.

"Why shouldn't it be?"

In a moment he saw the possibilities of the thought.

"Yes, why shouldn't it? To-morrow morning some one will come down these steps, and then the police will take the poor wretch to a mortuary, after which there will be the usual fiasco of an inquest. As there are no marks by which to identify him, hosts of stupid questions will be asked. After that--he will be forgotten, unless some one comes to claim him. But why shouldn't I become----?"

His eyes flashed with a new light. He was no longer cold and calm. He was eager, excited.

He listened eagerly. All was silent, save for a rumbling noise which he heard some distance away. He felt his pockets carefully. Yes, here was an old letter; it would do perfectly. He soaked it in the muddy waters of the river and crumpled it. It had the appearance of being in the river for days. He put the letter in the dead man's pocket.

Again he wiped his hands, and listened. Then he took the handkerchief he had used and dipped it in the river. It became saturated with the waters of the Thames. Yes, that would strengthen the chain of ident.i.ty. He put the handkerchief in another pocket of the dead man's clothes. Was there anything else he needed to do? No. He had examined the poor wretch, and there was nothing on him by which it could be known who he was. Now, the mystery would be made clear. A letter addressed to Radford Leicester, Esq., was in his pocket; a handkerchief also bearing his name would be found on his person. He gave the body a parting glance and came up the steps.

"Poor beggar, I wonder who he is, after all?" he said. "Anyhow, if there is any secret to learn, the thing that was he has learned it. He had the pluck, I hadn't; but, after all, it has given me an idea."

By the time he reached the top step he was to all outward appearances calm again. For a moment he hesitated, and then walked up New Bridge Street.

A policeman pa.s.sed him and gave him a suspicious glance, but, seeing a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man, said nothing.

"Good-night, constable."

"Good-night, sir; out late."

"Yes, rather." He was tempted to tell the man what he had seen, but did not yield to it. It was far better to say nothing. So they pa.s.sed on, he towards Ludgate Circus, the policeman towards Blackfriars Bridge.

When he reached his solitary room he sat down and began to think. What he had done appeared to him in the light of a grim joke, and he wondered what the result of it would be. There was something intensely interesting in the thought of what would be said when the body was found on the following morning. He was in a strange humour, and the events of the night had fallen in with it. Ever since the day on which he had left Taviton he had desired to hide himself from those who had hitherto known him, and the feeling had grown as the days went by. Why should he who, according to the world's standards, had disgraced himself at Taviton, appear before the empty-headed gossiping crew he had known? He had played his old acquaintances a trick now. What would they say when they heard the news?

He thought of Olive Castlemaine. What would she say? Had she forgotten him? he wondered. No, no, that could not be. The woman who had cared enough about him to promise to be his wife could not forget him so easily.

Oh, but this was a joke, a joke he really enjoyed. Let all those who knew him be fooled! He laughed at the thought of it, and there was a sort of bitter pleasure in his heart as he went to bed.