and pleasure. He's a queer looking face. When they used to let anyone go to see him, I've got tickets and been. The image of the real one, as the photographs show him, this substitute used to be. Yellow. But he'll get fed up. It's a queer world. Think of the luck of it. The luck of it. I expect he'll be sent to Capri. It's the best fun for a greener."
His cough overtook him again. Then he began mumbling enviously of pleasures and strange delights. "The luck of it, the luck of it! All my life I've been in London, hoping to get my chance."
"But you don't know that the Sleeper died," said Graham, suddenly.
The old man made him repeat his words.
"Men don't live beyond ten dozen. It's not in the order of things," said the old man. "I'm not a fool. Fools may believe it, but not me."
Graham became angry with the old man's assurance. "Whether you are a fool or not," he said, "it happens you are wrong about the Sleeper."
"Eh?"
"You are wrong about the Sleeper. I haven't told you before, but I will tell you now. You are wrong about the Sleeper."
"How do you know? I thought you didn't know anything—not even about Pleasure Cities."
Graham paused.
"You don't know," said the old man. "How are you to know? It's very few men———"
"I am the Sleeper."
He had to repeat it.
There was a brief pause. "There's a silly thing to
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