The Man Who Bought London by Edgar Wallace

wondrous potentialities of her miraculously acquired wealth, something like a pang came to her at the thought of leaving Smith Street. The bed was lumpy, the breakfast served solidly, thick bread and butter on thick plates, and glutinous coffee in what she had christened Mrs Gritter’s soundproof cups; the room, with its tiny bookshelves, its window-boxes, and its general neatness was redolent of much happiness. It was home to her – the only one of her own where she was mistress – that she had known.
    Mrs Gritter’s daughter was a trial certainly. Henrietta was a slatternly girl of twenty-four, mysteriously married and asmysteriously deserted – (the mystery was all Mrs Gritter’s, for the neighbourhood knew the story). She was now a chronic inebriate, and the lodgers of 107, Smith Street were for ever meeting her in her most dazed condition, to the intense annoyance of Mrs Gritter, who was in the habit of saying that she did not mind Henrietta’s weakness, but strongly condemned Henrietta’s indiscretion in making it known.
    But there were pleasant associations. Elsie had made friends amongst people who worked hard and lived decently on salaries which would scarcely suffice to pay for her Savoy lunch. As she was about to insert her key in the door of number 107, it opened and a young man stood in the entrance.
    ‘Hullo, Miss Marion,’ he said cheerily. ‘You’re home early tonight.’
    Gordon Bray occupied the second floor front, and was something outside of the run of men she had met. He was a splendid specimen of the self-educated man who had triumphed over the disadvantages which a poverty-stricken upbringing and inadequate schooling had brought him. He had been denied even the opportunities for securing a scholarship through the council schools, for his association with the unbeautiful school in Latimer Road had ended abruptly when he found himself the sole support of a widowed mother at the age of fourteen. Errand boy, printers’ devil, shop-boy, clerk – he had progressed till the death of his mother had shocked him to a realization of actualities. Tragic as that death had been, it had offered him a larger opportunity for advancing himself. His tiny income, which had sufficed for both, now offered a margin of surplus, and he had thrown himself into new fields of study.
    There are thousands of Gordon Brays in the world: young men fighting bravely against almost insuperable odds. Handicappedby a lack of influence, they must fight for their own openings, and woe to them if they have no goal or, having one, deviate by one hairbreadth from the path they have set themselves.
    The girl looked at him kindly. She was not in love with this good-looking boy, nor he with her. Between them existed a sympathy rarer than love. They were fellow-fighters in the big conflict of life, possessed common enemies, found similar inspirations.
    ‘I’m off to the “Tec”,’ he said, and swung a bundle of books without shame. ‘I’m getting so tired of Holdron’s – they raised my salary by five shillings a week today and expected me to be overwhelmed with gratitude.’
    She wanted to tell him her great news, but the fear that even a tiny spark of envy might be kindled in his heart stopped her. She would tell him another time when he was more cheerful.
    ‘How are the models?’ she asked. His goal was architecture, and those splendid models of his were the joy of his life. Moreover, they had material value, for he had won two gold medals at the school with a couple.
    A momentary cloud passed over his face; then he grinned cheerfully.
    ‘Oh, they’re all right,’ he said, and with a nod left her.
    She ran up the stairs lightheartedly, passing on her way Mrs Gritter’s disreputable daughter already far advanced in intoxication. Mrs Gritter brought the inevitable tea herself, and offered the inevitable comments on the weather and the inevitable apology for her daughter’s condition.
    ‘I’m going to leave you, Mrs