THE BETTER SORT
"More," Bight laughed, "than if he weren't! It's what you would have liked, as I understand you, isn't it? and what you would have got, It's what I would have helped you to."
"But who then," wailed Marshal, "helps him?"
"Nobody. His star. His genius."
Mortimer Marshal glared about him as for some sign of such aids in his own sphere. It embraced, his own sphere too, the roaring Strand, yet—mystification and madness!—it was with Beadel the Strand was roaring. A hawker, from afar, at sight of the group, was already scaling the slope. "Ah, but how the devil———?"
Bight pointed to this resource. "Go and see."
"But don't you want them?" poor Marshal asked as the others retreated.
"The Papers?" They stopped to answer. "No, never again. We've done with them. We give it up."
"I mayn't again see you?"
Dismay and a last clutch were in Marshal's face, but Maud, who had taken her friend's meaning in a flash, found the word to meet them. "We retire from business."
With which they turned again to move in the other sense, presenting their backs to Fleet Street. They moved together up the rest of the hill, going on in silence, not arrested by another little shrieking boy, not diverted by another extra-special, not pausing again till, at the end of a few minutes, they found themselves in the comparative solitude of Covent Garden, encumbered with the traces of its traffic, but now given over to peace. The howl of the Strand had ceased, their client had vanished forever, and from the centre of the empty space they could look up and see stars. One of these was of course Beadel-Muffet's, and the consciousness of that, for the moment, kept down any arrogance of triumph. He still hung above
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