his hat, he fled from his place of business like a madman. Three streets

away he stopped and groaned. 'Lord! I should have borrowed from the

manager!' he cried. 'But it's too late now; it would look dicky to go

back; I'm penniless--simply penniless--like the unemployed.'

He went home and sat in the dismantled dining-room with his head in his

hands. Newton never thought harder than this victim of circumstances,

and yet no clearness came. 'It may be a defect in my intelligence,' he

cried, rising to his feet, 'but I cannot see that I am fairly used. The

bad luck I've had is a thing to write to The Times about; it's enough to

breed a revolution. And the plain English of the whole thing is that I

must have money at once. I'm done with all morality now; I'm long past

that stage; money I must have, and the only chance I see is Bent Pitman.

Bent Pitman is a criminal, and therefore his position's weak. He must

have some of that eight hundred left; if he has I'll force him to go

shares; and even if he hasn't, I'll tell him the tontine affair, and

with a desperate man like Pitman at my back, it'll be strange if I don't

succeed.'

Well and good. But how to lay hands upon Bent Pitman, except by

advertisement, was not so clear. And even so, in what terms to ask a

meeting? on what grounds? and where? Not at John Street, for it would

never do to let a man like Bent Pitman know your real address; nor yet

at Pitman's house, some dreadful place in Holloway, with a trapdoor

in the back kitchen; a house which you might enter in a light summer

overcoat and varnished boots, to come forth again piecemeal in a

222

The Wrong Box