suppose that he had upon various occasions betaken himself when he desired privacy in some adventure.
Seated upon a rubbish heap which adorned that plot of ground, the Man with the Broken Nose first very carefully felt in either pocket of the bargain, and found nothing but a cheque book.
He pulled it out and held it hesitatingly for a few moments in his stubby right hand.
The Man with the Broken Nose was not without his superstitions—superstitions common, I fear, to his class—and one of these was Cheque Books. He knew indeed that with a Cheque Book great things could be done, but he knew not how. He had not possession of the magic password, or of the trick whereby this powerful instrument governs the modern world. He wondered for a moment a little thickly in his early morning mind whether a price were given for such things. For himself he regretfully concluded it was a mystery. He put it back. But even as he did so something in the heap of rubbish gave way, he slipped, and was suddenly acutely conscious of a warm wet feeling in his right calf: it came from a broken bottle.
His leg in the slipping of the rubble had
