'Robert Holt.'

'What are you?'

'A clerk.'

'You look as if you were a clerk.' There was a flame of scorn inhis voice which scorched me even then. 'What sort of a clerk areyou?'

'I am out of a situation.'

'You look as if you were out of a situation.' Again the scorn.'Are you the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? Youare a thief.'

'I am not a thief.'

'Do clerks come through the window?' I was still,--he putting noconstraint on me to speak. 'Why did you come through the window?'

'Because it was open.'

'So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?'

'No.'

'Then why through this?'

'Because I always was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tiblack.'

The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,--which, in fact, he did.

'Have you no home?'

'No.'