He sat down, wrought with unusual speed, and at
half-past ten wrote with magnificent flourish 'The End.'
His fire was out and he had neither coals nor wood. But his feet
were frozen into lifelessness. Impossible to go to bed like this;
he must take another turn in the streets. It would suit his
humour to ramble a while. Had it not been so late he would have
gone to see Reardon, who expected the communication of this
glorious news.
So again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled over
something or somebody in the dark.
'Who is that?' he cried.
The answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the
house and called to the landlady.
'Mrs Willoughby! Who is asleep on the stairs?'
'Why, I 'spect it's Mr Briggs,' replied the woman, indulgently.
'Don't you mind him, Mr Biffen. There's no 'arm: he's only had a
little too much. I'll go up an' make him go to bed as soon as
I've got my 'ands clean.'
'The necessity for waiting till then isn't obvious,' remarked the
realist with a chuckle, and went his way.
He walked at a sharp pace for more than an hour, and about
midnight drew near to his own quarter again.
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