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This is his home, this little dingy, old-fashioned red-brick house at an angle of the square, with a small paved space railed in before it. He pushes open the old gate with the iron arch above, where an oil-lamp used to hang, and hurries up to the door with the heavy shell-shaped porch, impatient to get to the warmth and light which await him within.

The bell has got out of order, for only a faint jangle comes from below as he rings; he waits a little and then pulls the handle again, more sharply this time, and still no one comes.

When Betty does think proper to come up and open the door he will tell her that it is too bad keeping a fellow standing out here, in the fog and cold, all this time…. She is coming at last–no, it was fancy; it seems as if Betty had slipped out for something, and perhaps the cook is upstairs, and his mother may be dozing by the fire, as she has begun to do of late.

Losing all patience, he gropes for the knocker, and, groping in vain, begins to hammer with bare fists on the door, louder and louder, until he is interrupted by a rough voice from the railings behind him.

‘Now then, what are you up to there, eh?’ says the voice, which belongs to a burly policeman who has stopped suspiciously on the pavement.

‘Why,’ says Rolleston, ‘I want to get in, and I can’t make them hear me. I wish you’d try what you can do, will you?’

The policeman comes slowly in to the gate. ‘I dessay,’ he says jocularly. ‘Is there anythink else? Come, suppose you move on.’

A curious kind of dread of he knows not what begins to creep over Wilfred at this.

‘Move on?’ he cries, ‘why should I move on? This is my house; don’t you see? I live here.’

‘Now look ‘ere, my joker, I don’t want a job over this,’ says the constable, stolidly. ‘You’ll bring a crowd round in another minute if you keep on that ‘ammering.’

‘Mind your own business,’ says the other with growing excitement.

‘That’s what you’ll make me do if you don’t look out,’ is the retort. ‘Will you move on before I make you?’

‘But, I say,’ protests Rolleston, ‘I’m not joking; I give you my word I’m not. I do live here. Why, I’ve just come back from school, and I can’t get in.’

‘Pretty school you come from!’ growls the policeman; ”andles on to your lesson books, if I knows anything. ‘Ere, out you go!’

Rolleston’s fear increases. ‘I won’t! I won’t!’ he cries frantically, and rushing back to the door beats upon it wildly. On the other side of it are love and shelter, and it will not open to him. He is cold and hungry and tired after his walk; why do they keep him out like this?

‘Mother!’ he calls hoarsely. ‘Can’t you hear me, mother? It’s Wilfred; let me in!’

The other takes him, not roughly, by the shoulder. ‘Now you take my advice,’ he says. ‘You ain’t quite yourself; you’re making a mistake. I don’t want to get you in trouble if you don’t force me to it. Drop this ‘ere tomfool game and go home quiet to wherever it is you do live.’

‘I tell you I live here, you fool!’ shrieks Wilfred, in deadly terror lest he should be forced away before the door is opened.

‘And I tell you you don’t do nothing of the sort,’ says the policeman, beginning to lose his temper. ‘No one don’t live ‘ere, nor ain’t done not since I’ve bin on the beat. Use your eyes if you’re not too far gone.’

For the first time Rolleston seems to see things plainly as they are; he glances round the square–that is just as it always is on foggy winter evenings, with its central enclosure a shadowy black patch against a reddish glimmer, beyond which the lighted windows of the houses make yellow bars of varying length and tint.