There must be ways of getting rid of him. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.
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