His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far
as to supply him with warm water, that he might in a measure
cleanse himself. This operation rapidly performed, the hapless
author flung himself into bed, and before long was fast asleep.
When he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he
discovered that his host kept an oil-shop.
'Lost everything, have you?' asked the man sympathetically.
'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I
managed to save. All my books burnt!'
Biffen shook his head dolorously.
'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!--and
what might your business be?'
The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was
invited to break his fast, which he did right willingly. Then,
with assurances that he would return before nightfall, he left
the house. His steps were naturally first directed to Clipstone
Street; the familiar abode was a gruesome ruin, still smoking.
Neighbours informed him that Mr Briggs's body had been brought
forth in a horrible condition; but this was the only loss of life
that had happened.
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