That was enough.

He was bundled out of the place at five minutes' notice, with a threat of a policeman if he made it six.

And even when a week later the shilling was found in the warehouseman's blotting-paper, no one doubted that the cashiered rogue was as cunning as he was nefarious.
After that he had given up what seemed the farce of holding up his head.
What was the use, he said, when, as sure as night follows day, that bad name of his dogged him wherever he went?
So Jeffreys began to go down.

In after years he spoke very little of those six months in London, and when he did it was about people he had met, and not about himself.

What he did, where he lodged, how he lived, these were matters he never mentioned and never liked to be asked about.
I am quite sure myself that the reason of this silence was not shame.
He was not one of those fellows who revenge themselves on fate by deliberately going to the bad.