He had suddenly a fearful wish to pass the archway where he had placed the body; a fearful wish that had no sense, no end in view, no anything; just an insensate craving to see the dark place again. He crossed Borrow Street to the little lane. There was only one person visible, a man on the far side with his shoulders hunched against the wind; a short, dark figure which crossed and came towards him in the flickering lamplight. What a face! Yellow, ravaged, clothed almost to the eyes in a stubbly greyish growth of beard, with blackish teeth, and haunting bloodshot eyes. And what a figure of rags--one shoulder higher than the other, one leg a little lame, and thin! Asurge of feeling came up in Laurence for this creature, more unfortunate than himself. There were lower depths than his!
"Well, brother," he said, "you don't look too prosperous!"The smile which gleamed out on the man's face seemed as unlikely as a smile on a scarecrow.
"Prosperity doesn't come my way," he said in a rusty voice. "I'm a failure--always been a failure. And yet you wouldn't think it, would you?--I was a minister of religion once."Laurence held out a shilling. But the man shook his head.
"Keep your money," he said. "I've got more than you to-day, Idaresay. But thank you for taking a little interest. That's worth more than money to a man that's down.""You're right."