Nearly at the same date as the incident related in the foregoing chapters, and about two hours past midnight, a strongly-built, middle-aged man, whose garb proclaimed him a mechanic, took his way across Westminster Bridge.

He was not walking very fast, but when the hour was tolled forth from the lofty tower, he began to mend his pace, glancing occasionally at the sullen river that swept on beneath him.

The bridge was completely deserted. The last policeman he had seen was standing near New Palace Yard, and the belated mechanic was thinking how strange and solitary the usually crowded footway appeared, when he descried a figure leaning over the low parapet.

He had heard many tales of suicide, and something in the attitude of the figure caused him to hurry on.

As he advanced, he perceived, by the light of the lamp, that it was a young man, bare-headed, for a felt hat was lying on the pavement.

The person was muttering to himself, and his demeanour was altogether so wild, that the mechanic was convinced that his suspicions were correct, and he, therefore, called out.

He instantly turned at the cry, and exhibited a haggard visage; but instead of replying, made an attempt to spring upon the parapet.

But the workman was too quick for him, and seized him before he could execute his desperate purpose.

The intended suicide quite shook in the grasp of his powerful preserver.

He was a young man, and his brown hair and beard made the ghastly hue of his countenance yet more striking by the contrast. Moreover, he had the look of a gentleman, but it was difficult to judge of his condition from his grey tweed habiliments.

He offered very little resistance to his friendly captor, his strength apparently being gone.

“Let me go!” he said in a hoarse voice. “I don't wish to live!”

“Madman!” cried the mechanic. “What's the matter, that you would throw away life thus?”

“What's the matter?” echoed the other, with a laugh that had nothing human in it. “I am ruined—utterly ruined! Had you let me alone, my troubles would have been ended by this time!”

And he made another ineffectual attempt to free himself.

“Don't think to get away!” said the mechanic. “I'm sorry for you, but it's my duty to prevent you from committing this wicked act. I shall hold you till a policeman comes up!”

“No; don't do that!” cried the wretched man. “Though I don't know where to turn for a night's lodging, I don't want to be locked up! Leave go your hold; I promise not to make the attempt again!”

“Well, I'll trust you,” replied the mechanic, releasing him.

They looked at each other for a few moments, and both seemed satisfied with the scrutiny.

The intended suicide was apparently about three or four and twenty; tall, handsome, well-proportioned. As already intimated, he had brown locks and a brown beard, and was dressed in such manner that no precise idea could be formed of his rank.

In regard to his preserver, there could be no mistake. His working attire and cap proclaimed his station. He had an honest, manly countenance. In age he might be about forty-five.

“Here's your hat, sir,” he said picking it up. “I should like to have a word with you before we part. Perhaps I may be warranted in asking you a question or two, especially as my motive is a good one. I'm not influenced by mere curiosity. I'll begin by telling you my name. It's Joe Hartley. I'm a stonemason by trade, and live in Lambeth Palace Road—at least, close beside it. The reason I'm out so late is that I've been doing a job at Paddington. But I don't regret it, since I've been the humble instrument of saving a fellow-creature. Now you know all you may care to learn about me, and, in return, I should like to hear something about you.”

“I can't tell you who I am, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, “nor can I acquaint you with my strange history. You may guess that I must have been brought to a desperate pass.”

His voice changed as he went on.

“What's a poor fellow to do when he's utterly ruined? I've spent all my money, pawned my watch, my ring, and another little trinket. I've nothing left—not a sou.”

“But have you no relatives—no friends?” inquired Hartley, kindly.

“Yes; I've relatives, but I've quarrelled with them, and would die rather than go near them!” he cried, in a bitter, desperate tone, that left no doubt of his fixed determination. “Friends I have none!”

“Well, well, I won't argue with you about that,” said Hartley. “But there is no occasion for one so young as you are to starve. There are hundreds of ways in which you may earn a living. Amongst others, you might 'list for a soldier. I'm much mistaken if you don't stand six feet two. They'd take you at the Horse Guards in a minute.

“I did think of that; and, perhaps, might have done it, but I was goaded to this desperate act by a circumstance on which I won't dwell. I think I must have been mad. Very likely I shall enlist tomorrow.

“But you want rest, and have nowhere to go. Come home with me,” said the stonemason.

“You are very good, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, much affected. “This is real kindness, and I feel it—feel it deeply!”

“Come along, then,” cried Hartley. “There's a policeman moving towards us, and he'll wonder what we are about. You won't tell me your name, I suppose?”

“Call me Liddel—Walter Liddel,” replied the other. “It's not my real name, though I have a right to use it. At any rate, I mean to be known by it henceforward, and it will serve me with the recruiting sergeant.”

“It will serve you with me as well,” said Hartley. “So come along, Mr. Walter Liddel.”

Presently they encountered the policeman, who eyed them rather suspiciously, but was satisfied with a few words from Hartley.

On quitting the bridge, the stonemason turned off on the right, into Lambeth Palace Road.

They walked on in silence, for Liddel did not seem inclined to talk.

Gradually the street became wider, and Hartley, noticing that his companion began to walk very feebly, told him he had not much further to go.

Their course seemed to be stopped by the high wall of the palace grounds; but Hartley turned into a narrow street on the left, called Spencer's Rents, and halting before the door of a neat little habitation, said:

“Here we are!”

Walter Liddel replied, in a faint voice, that he was glad of it.

Hartley then knocked softly at the door, which was presently opened by his wife.