You are to picture me, then, standing in that wind-swept corridor, open at one end to the stars, and holding in my arms the sobbing form of Debora Matchwick, and waiting the coming of Dr. Bardolph Just. I awaited that coming with no trepidation, for now it seemed as though I stood an equal match for the man, by reason of this night's work; for if someone had shouted "Murder!" in the silence of the house, the thing could not have been proclaimed more clearly. I saw now that in that trance into which he had thrown her he had by some devilish art suggested to the girl what she should do, and at what hour, and then had thrown open the end of the corridor, that she might step out to her death.

Exactly how much she suspected herself, or how much she had had time to grasp, since the moment when I had so roughly awakened her, I could not tell; but she clung to me, and begged me incoherently not to let her go, and not to let the man come near her. Feeling that the thing must be met bravely, I got my arm about her, and advanced with her down the corridor to meet the doctor.

He came with a light held above his head; he was panting from excitement and hurry. I know that he expected to run to the end of that corridor, and to look out, and to see what should have lain far below him; but he came upon us advancing towards him instead, and he stopped dead and lowered his light.

"What's the matter?" he stammered.

"You should know that best," I answered him boldly. "Death might have been the matter. With your leave, I'll take this lady to her room."

He stood back against the wall, and watched us as we went past him. His brows were drawn down, and his eyes were glittering, and the faint white line of his teeth showed between his lips. In that attitude he remained, like some figure turned to stone, while I drew the girl along, and down the stairs; I had to ask her the way to her room, for, of course, I did not know it. Coming to it at last, I took her cold hands in mine and held them for a moment, and smiled as cheerfully as I could.

"This is not the time for explanations," I said; "leave all that till the morning. Go to bed, and try not to remember anything that has happened; and lock your door."

I heard the key turn in the lock before I came away; not till then did I retrace my steps back to the corridor. I was scarcely surprised to find the man standing almost in the same attitude—only now his head had lowered a little, and he seemed to be musing. Without moving he looked up at me, and a queer sort of grin spread over his features.

"Smart man!" he whispered, with a sneer. "How did it happen? How much do you know?"

"More than you would have me know?" I replied. "Would it not be well to fasten up that door again?" I jerked my head in the direction of the end of the corridor.

Without a word he handed the lamp to me, and started towards the opening. He went so quickly that I thought for the moment he meant to hurl himself upon that death he had intended for the girl; but he stopped at the end, and seemed to be fumbling with the doors.

By that time I had reached him, and, with the aid of the lamp, I could see that there were two heavy doors opening inwards and fastened with a great bar that dropped across them, and with bolts at the top and at the bottom. Quite as though he had forgotten the incidents of the night, he turned to me, and gave an explanation of the doors.

"There used to be an iron staircase against the wall of the house, leading down from here at one time," he said. "It was the whim of some former owner. I found these doors by accident."

"And opened them with a purpose," I reminded him.

He said nothing in reply. Having secured the doors, he motioned to me to go in front, which I did, carrying the light, and in that order we came to my room. I would have handed him the lamp at the door, but he motioned to me to go in, and, following himself, closed the door. I set down the lamp, and waited for what he had to say. He was a long time coming to it; he wandered about the room for a time, stopping now and then, with his back to me, and with his finger tracing out the pattern of the wall paper. When at last he spoke he was still tracing that pattern, and he did not look round.

"You have done me a service to-night, and one I'm not likely to forget," he said.

"A service?" I asked in amazement. "I should scarcely have thought you'd call it that."

"I do—I do!" he exclaimed, swinging round upon me suddenly. "I meant to kill her, and you've saved me from that. I thank my God for it!"

"I don't believe you," I said doggedly. "You planned the thing too well for that."

"I did not plan it, except by the opening of the doors," he said. "I knew that she walked in her sleep sometimes, and I thought——"

"You lie!" I exclaimed fiercely. "I watched you, and heard you while you suggested to her that she should walk in this eastern corridor at midnight, and should come to the end wall. And you knew that there would be no wall there."

He looked at me in a bewildered fashion for what seemed a long time; then he nodded slowly twice. "So you heard that, did you? Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but confession. I did plan the thing; it was by a method you don't understand—what we call hypnotic suggestion. That means that you tell a person that they are to do a certain thing at a certain hour, and when that hour arrives they must inevitably set about to do it."

"Why did you want to kill her?"

"Why do we always desire to crush the thing that we can't possess?" he snapped back at me. "Because I love her—because I would sell my immortal soul—if I have one—to bend her or break her to my will. You are a sleepy dolt, understanding nothing of passions such as sway stronger men; you are not likely to understand this. But she maddens me when she sticks that pretty chin of hers in the air, and I see the contempt flash out of her eyes. If you saw so much, you probably saw the beginning of it, when she said she would have nothing further to do with me, and threatened to get away out of the house. Then the thought came over me that I would put an end to it all; and I made that suggestion to her that she should walk here to-night; and I came first, and opened the old doors. I thank God you saved her!"

He suddenly dropped his head in his hands and groaned aloud; and my heart melted a little with pity for him. I guessed something of what a stormy nature was hidden in the man; and I, who thought I had read something of love in her eyes for me, could afford to pity the man to whose pleadings she turned a deaf ear. Fool that I was, I did not realise the cunning of the creature who stood with hidden face before me; I did not understand that this was but a bit of play-acting, to put me off my guard. I was to learn all that later.

"Do you think you'll help your case by such a business as this of to-night?" I asked. "It's a poor way to make love, to strive to kill the woman."

"She won't know anything about it; she won't guess," he exclaimed eagerly, looking up at me. "She does not know that I suggested to her what to do; she will only wonder at finding the doors open. I can give some explanation of that, if necessary."

"And what will you do now?" I asked him, as I lighted my own lamp and put his into his hand.

"Give up the game," he replied, with a faint smile. "This has taught me a lesson to-night; it has shown me how near the best of us may come to a crime. I am sincere in that; I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you've done. The lover in me is gone; henceforth I'm her guardian and the friend of her dead father. There's my hand on it!"

I looked into his eyes, and once again I believed him; I began to feel that I had misjudged the man. True, his hand was cold enough in my grasp, but I paid no heed to that; I seemed to see only before me a changed and humbled man. He wished me "Good-night!" with much cordiality, and went off to his own room. For my part, I felt something of a missionary, and congratulated myself upon the night's work.

I had made up my mind that I would see Debora as early as possible on the following morning. I was anxious to know what impression that startling occurrence of the previous night had made upon her. I wanted to see her before there was any possibility of Bardolph Just confronting her; and in that I was successful.

It was a very fine morning, and I supposed that I should find her in the grounds. I felt that I might reasonably expect that she would make her way to that summer-house in which we had met and talked before; and in that also I was right. Quite early, before breakfast was announced, I came upon her in the morning sunlight; and for a long time, as it seemed, we held hands without a word.

"You slept well?" I asked her.

She nodded brightly. "Better than I should have done, I suppose," she said, with a smile; "but then, I was sure of my friend—certain that no harm could come to me. How much have you to tell me of last night?"

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "There is nothing that you need be told, now that everything is ended. For the future you have to trust to me—just as you trusted last night. You said I was your friend; and I am going to look after you."

"That makes me very happy. By the way, what am I to call you?" she asked artlessly.

I felt the colour mounting in my cheeks. "You know my name," I said.

"Yes—John," she replied, and we both laughed.

Now this is, of course, all very shameful, and I had no right to be standing there, holding her hands, and letting her talk to me in that fashion; but I did not remember then what I was, or from what I had come. Indeed, it is more than possible that if I had remembered I should scarcely have changed my attitude, for but little joy had ever come into my life. I merely set this down here, in order to record the fact that, save for one lamentable lapse, we were "John" and "Debora" to each other from that day forward.

But I had some instructions to give her for her own safety. She listened attentively while I gave them.

"You had better not refer to last night at all," I said. "Let the doctor imagine that you have forgotten about it, or at least have believed that it was some ugly dream. Meet him as usual—show him, if anything, a little more kindness than you have done."

"I can't do that," she said hastily.

"You must; it is imperative," I urged. "I can tell you this, at least: I have his promise that he will not molest you again, and that he will be for the future simply your guardian, and nothing else."

"He said that?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yes, and I believe he means it," I answered steadily.

"I don't believe it, John; it's a trick," she said, shaking her head. "I've seen too much of him; I know him too well. He is trying to throw you off the scent. Don't you understand how helpless we both are? You tell me that you are in his power, because he knows something about your past life: how can you fight against him, or help me?"

"I can, and I will," I assured her. "And you can help, by being discreet, and by waiting until we have an opportunity to do something in concert."

She promised faithfully that she would do that, and she left me, with a smile and a wave of the hand. I followed her slowly to the house, and found the doctor in his usual place at the breakfast table, talking quietly to her. The woman Leach was behind him, as usual.

It became obvious, in a minute or two, that Bardolph Just was anxious to find out how much she remembered, or how much she understood, of the events of the previous night; he had already begun to question Debora cautiously. He appeared to be in a genial mood, and yet in a softened mood; he gave me a smile as I took my place.

"So you slept well?" said Bardolph Just to the girl, as he leaned towards her. "Not disturbed by anything?"

She shook her head, and looked at him with raised eyebrows of perplexity; truly I felt that she had learnt her lesson well. "What should disturb me?"

"Nothing, nothing!" he replied, evidently at a loss. "Only I thought that there was some noise in the house last night; I almost went out to investigate. But, of course, if you heard nothing——"

It happened that at that moment I glanced up over his head, and I saw the woman behind him turn a swift glance out of those dark eyes of hers at the girl; it was but a momentary thing, and then her eyes were cast down in the usual humble fashion; but in that instant I had read something that I had not understood before. I read not only hatred of the girl, and defiance of her; I saw, as clearly as though it had been written, that she knew of the events of the night before, and that she knew that the girl was not speaking the truth. I wondered exactly what had happened, or in what way she had gained her knowledge: I was to learn that swiftly enough.

Somewhat later in the forenoon, I was practically alone in the house. I knew that Debora had gone off into the grounds with a book, and I did not care to disturb her. Bardolph Just had gone down into London on business. I was lounging at my full length in an easy chair in the dining-room, smoking, and reading the newspaper, when the door opened softly, and Martha Leach came in. I did not turn my head, but I saw her moving round the room in a large mirror hanging on the wall opposite my chair. Indeed, our eyes met in that mirror, before they met elsewhere. She stopped, and, somewhat to my surprise, spoke.

"You are a very brave man," she said, with a quick glance at the long windows, as though fearing interruption. "And a strong man, too."

"Who told you that?" I asked, without shifting my position.

"No one tells me anything, and I don't need to be told," she answered. "I find out things for myself; I watch, and discover."

I seemed to have a dim inkling of what was coming, but I think my face betrayed nothing. I lowered the newspaper to my knee, and went on smoking, and watching her in the mirror.

"I saw you last night in the eastern corridor; I saw you catch that girl just in time," she went on, in the same breathless sort of whisper. "A moment later, and that would have been death."

"You seem to know a great deal about it," I answered. "Perhaps you can tell me something else."

She laughed insolently, and shrugged her shoulders. I kept my eyes upon her in the mirror. "Anything you like," she replied.

"Then tell me how you could see anything that happened in the eastern corridor last night," was my answer.

"I was in the grounds—I had been there a long time," she whispered, her eyes growing more excited. "I did not know about the door; I only knew that something was going to happen, because the doctor kept moving about all the evening. I watched him go out of his room—I mean that I saw the light disappear, and knew that he had not put it out; I saw it go across the windows as he moved. I thought he was going to your room, and so I went round there; and then I saw your light go out. And then, as by a miracle, I saw that wall open, and the doctor stood there, like a spirit. I saw him before the light was puffed out. Then I waited to see what would happen."

"Well, I hope you were satisfied with what you saw?" I said carelessly.

She snapped her fingers quickly, and laughed. "Bah! you think you will put me off; you think I don't understand," she said. "I tell you I saw you come to that door and look out; I saw you in the starlight. And then I saw her come; heard the shriek; saw you catch her in your arms. After that, the fastening of the door by the doctor, while you held the lamp. And yet this morning"—her voice changed to a tone of bitter irony—"this morning, if you please, no one knows anything about it, and everyone has slept well. Bah!"

She snapped her fingers again, and it seemed almost as if she waited to know what I should say. But I realised that this woman was an intimate of the doctor; and it was my business, then, to fear everyone in that house, save Debora. So I went on smoking, and, still without turning my head, talked to the woman I saw in the mirror.

"Have you anything else to say?" I asked calmly.

"Oh! a great deal," she flashed back at me, forgetting the cautious voice in which she had spoken. "I want, first of all, to know who you are, and how you come to be in this house so mysteriously and so suddenly; for who saw you arrive? That I shall discover some day for myself. I discover everything in time. And I want to tell you something."

She moved a step nearer to my chair, and now I turned my head and looked into her eyes.

"He did not succeed last night; but perhaps the next time he will not fail. So surely as I stand here, so surely do I know that he will kill her." She nodded her head with incredible swiftness two or three times, and drew back from me, with her lips tightly pursed.

I lost control of myself in the sudden shock of her words; I sprang to my feet. "What do you mean?" I asked in horror. "What do you know?"

"Only what I have said," she mocked at me, as she made for the door. "I would advise you, Mr. Mysterious, to look well after this girl you love—this frail thing of prettiness. For the doctor will surely kill her!" Then she was gone, and I was left staring helplessly at the closed door.

So much had that thought been in my own mind that her words seemed but an echo. I thought I saw that this man, Bardolph Just, cheated of his purpose in securing the girl, had made up his mind to get rid of her—out of some insane jealousy that prompted him not to allow her to go to the arms of another man. Yet, when I came to think over the problem, it occurred to me that if, as he had faintly suggested, he wanted control of her fortune, this would be but the act of a madman. The only possibility was that the fortune might in some way be secured by him without her.

But now that the matter had been confirmed in this startling fashion I knew that it was imperative that I should keep a stricter watch than ever upon Debora. For suddenly it seemed to me that my absurd belief in the man was no longer justified. I saw that the doctor had merely adopted that attitude of penitence, the better to put me off my guard. Yet, even while I promised myself that I would do valiant things, I could only remember my own helplessness, in being entirely dependent upon the very man against whom I wished to arm myself. I had in my pocket but a shilling or two, which he had given me for my journey down into London—that journey which I had never taken.

As for any future that might once have seemed bright before me—what future had I? I was practically in hiding under another name, and I had no resources save those I might derive from one who knew my secret, and was, in a great sense, my enemy. I was in love—surely more hopelessly than mortal man had ever been before; and I was liable at any moment to be betrayed by the man Harvey Scoffold, who had penetrated my story. Altogether, as I came to review the position, I could have heartily wished myself back in my prison again, save for one element in the business. That element was Debora Matchwick, and I knew that in the strange game I was playing Fate had destined me to fight on her side, in a matter of life and death.

Bardolph Just returned early in the afternoon, and went straight to his study. Debora I had seen for an instant as she crossed the hall; she gave me a quick smile, and that was all. There seemed to be brooding over the whole house an atmosphere of expectancy—quite as though we waited for something that was to happen, and faced it each in his or her particular way. I found myself listening for the doctor's step in the house, while I felt equally certain that for his part he was wondering what move I should take, and was calmly preparing to meet such a move, whatever it might be.

The long day drew to a close, and presently the harsh bell clanged through the house as a summons to dinner. I happened to be in my room at the time, and as I stepped out of it to go down the stairs, I saw that the doctor was waiting at the head of the stairs, and was peering over into the hall below. He turned his head when he heard my step behind him, and spoke in a whisper. He spoke as though we were on the friendliest terms, and almost as if there were some secret understanding between us. As I stepped up to him he put his hand on my shoulder, and, laughable as it may seem, I felt a little thrill of gratitude and tenderness for the man run through me—such was the fascination of him. All my suspicions of him seemed to go to the wind.

"I thought I ought to prepare you, John, in case you didn't know," he whispered. "Two bits of news—Harvey Scoffold has come to dinner, which may mean mischief; and Capper's missing."

He imparted that last scrap of information with something so like a chuckle that I looked at him quickly, with a new suspicion in my mind. Oddly enough, he must have guessed what I meant, for he shook his head and grinned.

"Oh, nothing to do with me, I assure you," he said. "Only he has gone off without a word to anyone—and I don't quite like it. Of course, I'm relieved to know that he has gone; the old fool was like a ghost wandering about the place. But still, I'd like to know where he is."

"I don't see that it matters very much," I replied. "But what makes you think that Scoffold may mean mischief?"

Still keeping his hand on my shoulder, he turned me about, and began to walk with me down the stairs. "Because it's a long time since he has visited me until the other night, and now he comes again. You see, he knows our story, and he's utterly unscrupulous. More than that, he's always in want of money."

"I'll try what personal violence will do, if he tries any tricks with me," I muttered savagely. And once again I heard the doctor chuckle.

Harvey Scoffold was in the dining-room when we entered, and was talking to Debora. He was flourishing about in his big, bullying way, with his hands thrust in his pockets, and his feet wide apart. He turned round to greet us at once. I noticed that he looked sharply from the doctor to me, and back again, as though he suspected we had been discussing him; but the next moment he gripped our hands warmly, and began to pour out apologies.

"I hope you don't mind a lonely man coming in, and taking advantage of your hospitality in this fashion," he began to the doctor. "But it suddenly occurred to me that I might run over to see you—and I acted on the impulse of a moment."

"Delighted, I'm sure," murmured Bardolph Just. Yet he scarcely looked delighted. "You know you're always welcome, Harvey."

"Thanks—a thousand thanks!" exclaimed the big man. "You fellows interested me so much the other night while we smoked our cigars, that I rather wanted to have that little discussion out with you. You don't mind?"

We were seated at the table by this time, and I saw the doctor look up quickly at him, with something of a scowl on his face. "I mind very much," he said sharply. "Drop it."

A little startled, Harvey Scoffold sat upright, looking at him for a moment; then he nodded slowly. "Very good—then the subject is dropped," he said. "It would not have been mentioned again by me, but that I thought I might be of some assistance in the matter."

There was no reply to that, and we presently drifted into other topics of conversation. But after a time it seemed as though Harvey Scoffold, in sheer venom, must get back to that subject, if only by a side door, for he presently asked a question casually that bore straight upon it.

"By the way, that quaint old servant, Capper—is he any better?"

The doctor slowly finished the wine he was drinking, and set the glass down, and wiped his lips; then, without looking at his questioner, he answered—

"Capper is gone!" he said.

Two persons at the table echoed that last word together—Harvey Scoffold and Debora exclaimed, as in one voice, "Gone!"

"Having had enough of our society, the man has taken himself off as mysteriously as he came," went on the doctor calmly. "I never understood his coming; still less do I understand his going, although I confess that the latter movement is the more reasonable. Perhaps he has remembered where his master is, and has gone to join him."

I stole a glance at the startled face of the girl. She seemed strangely excited. Harvey Scoffold, evidently at a loss for conversation, hummed the mere shred of an air between his lips, and looked at the ceiling. The doctor's face I could not see, because he was behind the lamp. I longed for the dinner to pass, because I wanted to get at my man, and find out just what game was afoot; I was in a mood to choke whatever news he had out of him, if necessary.

Debora rose at last, and went out of the room. No sooner was the door closed than the doctor shifted his chair a little, so as to bring him clear of the lamp, and brought a fist down on the table with a bang.

"Now, Scoffold," he said violently, "what's the move?"

"Yes, what's the move?" I echoed, leaning towards the man also.

He glanced from one to the other of us with a look of smiling innocence on his face. "The move?" he said. "I'm afraid I don't understand. In the name of all that's marvellous, can't a man come to dinner with friends without being asked what the move is?"

"You're not the man to do anything without a purpose," cried Bardolph Just. "You discovered something the last time you were here, and you evidently want to discover something else. Let me warn you——"

"Stop! stop!" broke in Harvey Scoffold, raising his hands protestingly. "I need no threats and no warnings, because there is nothing to threaten about, nor to warn about. My hands are clean, and I trust they may remain so. If I referred to the matter at all to-night, it was simply because I was naturally very deeply interested in the story I heard, and I wanted to know what further developments there might be, that is all."

"Well, there are no further developments," growled the doctor. "I doubt if there will be any further developments."

"I'm delighted to hear it, and I'm only worried about one thing—that's the man Capper. He may make mischief, and he may get himself into trouble—poor old fellow!—wandering about the world friendless. I'm quite sorry for Capper."

The doctor excused himself almost immediately, and went to his study. To my surprise, Scoffold linked his arm in mine, and drew me with him towards the door of the house. "It's a fine night, and a walk will do you good," he said. "Walk back with me to my place."

"That's rather too far," I said, for I remembered that he had chambers in the West-end of London.

"I've taken another lodging," he said, without looking at me. "It's about a mile from here—or perhaps a little more—in a sort of rural cottage, where I can smell the roses when I wake in the morning. Cheap and wholesome, and all that sort of thing. Come along."

It was still quite early, and I reflected that no harm was likely to come to the girl in the short time I should be away. Besides, in a fashion, this man drew me to him, by reason of the fact that I was afraid of him, and of what he might do or say. So we went out of the house together, and traversed the dark grounds, and so came arm-in-arm into the open road. Smoking our cigars like two gentlemen at ease, we strolled along under the stars.

I found that he had taken a lodging in a quaint little cottage, with a long garden in front of it, in a queer little back street in Highgate—I should scarcely have believed that such a place existed in what was really London. He fitted his key into the door, and we went into a tiny passage and up some stairs. As we reached the top of the stairs, a clean-looking old woman came out of the room below, and called to him.

"Your servant is waiting up for you, sir," she said.

"Thank you very much indeed," replied Harvey Scoffold blandly, and the woman retired.

I found myself wondering a little what sort of servant he had brought to such a place as this. I followed him into a little clean sitting-room, with two doors opening out of it into what were evidently bedrooms.

At one side of the room a little table was set out with decanters, and glasses, and syphons: he proceeded to mix for himself and for me. Looking about him in search of something which he could not find, he struck his hand on a little bell, and I saw one of the doors open, and someone come in. I stared with a dropping jaw when I saw that the mysterious servant who now came in smiling was Capper!

Capper did not look at me. He received his instructions, and went out of the room in search of what was wanted. He came noiselessly back in a moment or two, and during his absence no word was spoken. When the door was finally closed again, I spoke in a tone I vainly endeavoured to control.

"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded.

"Of what?" asked Harvey Scoffold innocently. "Oh! you mean Capper? Purely an act of charity, my dear boy. I wouldn't have wished the old man to starve."

"You're lying," I said hotly. "You asked all those questions to-night during dinner, knowing well that the old man was here. Come, what's the motive?"

He took a long drink and set down his glass with a sigh of satisfaction. "The motive is this," he said, with a curious grin stealing over his features. "While I wish no direct harm to you, my dear boy, I always like to be prepared for anything that may happen. I am in possession of your story—I know practically all that I want to know. But in the fulness of time that story must change and move; something's got to happen to you at some time or other. Now this man Capper—this creature of the lost memory—may be a mere pawn in the game, or he may be something more. Who shall say what is locked away in that numbed brain of his?—who shall say when or under what circumstances he may wake up? I shall be curious to know what he will say when he wakes—curious to understand what the shock was that drove him into his present condition."

"Why should you concern yourself about the matter at all?" I demanded.

"Because I wish to concern myself on your account, my dear fellow," he said blandly. "Really you ought to be very much obliged to me. Bardolph Just would have sent the man packing, or would have let him drift out into the world, with the possibility that at some time or other Capper would wake up and tell his story, and demand sanely to know where his master was. Here I have him safely, and if he blurts out the story at all—always supposing that he has one to blurt out—he can only tell it to a friend. Don't be hasty, and don't misjudge people."

Nevertheless, I did not like it. I knew that I was in the power of this man Scoffold, and I saw, in the line of conduct he was taking, so many steps towards using me for his own ends. The coming to dinner, the taking of this lodging so near to where I lived, the securing of the man Capper. I felt that he was drawing a net about me, out of which I might not be able to struggle.

We sat talking for a long time, and gradually, with his plausible tongue, he persuaded me that he was my friend, and that he meant to help me. He suspected the doctor, he told me, and his real motive in coming to that lodging was to be near me in case of necessity.

"Trust me," he said, "and I will stand your friend. More than that, I want to show you now that my help shall be of a practical nature. I take it that you have no money; that you are dependent upon Bardolph Just for everything?" As I was silent, he nodded, and went on, "Just as I thought. Well, we'll remedy that; you must let me lend you a little money."

I protested feebly for a time, but he was insistent, and at last I yielded. I took only a few shillings, because I really needed them, and I did not know at what moment I might be thrown on my own resources, and left to face the world once more. Then, with something amounting to friendliness, I left Harvey Scoffold at the little gate in the fence, at the end of the long garden which led to the cottage, and took my way back towards the doctor's house.

It was very late, and very dark. I was going along at a swinging pace, when I saw a man rise from beside the road and come hobbling towards me, pleading volubly as he came. Having nothing for beggars, I was pressing on, while he jogged along beside me, about a foot in my rear, still pleading.

"S'welp me, guv'nor, yer might spare a tanner to 'elp a pore bloke to a night's lodging. I've bin trampin' it all day, an' I've scarcely 'ad a mouthful of food; it wouldn't 'urt yer to give me a tanner. I wouldn't be like this 'ere if I 'adn't bin unfort'nit; but wot's a pore bloke to do wot's been in jail—an' gits chivied abaht——"

I stopped and wheeled round on him. "You say you've been in prison?" I asked. "What prison was it?"

"Pent'ouse," he replied; and on that I thrust the money I had ready in my hand into his, and turned abruptly and made off.

But, as ill-luck would have it, we had been standing squarely under a lamp, and as I turned round I saw the man give a start of surprise. I was in a mood to run, knowing well that I could out-distance him easily, but as I went striding away, I heard him come pounding after me, and heard him shouting something. The mischief was done; there was nothing for it but to meet him.

So I turned back slowly and then stood still, and waited for him.