“Leave my house!” shouted the Rev. Stanley Blewton to his son. Two women—they were the Prodigal’s mother and sister—wept and pleaded. But the man of God was inexorable.

“Silence!” he exclaimed. “And”—turning to his son—“never cross this threshold again.”

“Father!” cried the boy.

“Thief!” retorted the reverend gentleman.

The face of his progeny burnt red, his eyes flashed, and he clenched his fists. The women meanwhile redoubled their sobs.

“But, hold,” added Mr. Blewton, as his son turned to go. “You shall be treated beyond your deserts. Here are ten pounds. Use them discreetly. They are the last you will ever have from me.”“Keep your money, sir,” answered Master Henry Blewton—he was but seventeen years of age, and inherited the hot temper of his parent., “Mother, good-bye. Maude, God bless you. I am innocent.”

He kissed his mother and sister. The flush of resentment had died from his face. He turned to his father, and extending his hand, said,—

“Wish me good-bye, sir. Time will set me right.”

But an ominous sneer played about the thin lips of the clergyman. He pointed to the door, and his last words to his son were,—

“I will have no parley with one who has brought dishonour on my name. Go!”

Henry Blewton cast one longing look at his mother and sister, and then walked straight into the hall, took his hat off the peg, and, as the door closed on him, Mrs. Blewton screamed in her agony, and fell into a faint that looked like death.

The Rev. Stanley Blewton was a man with a sense of honour pushed to its extremest point. He had no forgiveness for the sinner who brought discredit on an honest name. Like all good Christians, he was bound, I presume, to accept the story of the thief on the cross. But as long as there remained another text in the Bible he would never select that particular scripture as the text of a discourse. His only son had through his influence obtained a good appointment in a clerical insurance office, in which the reverend gentleman was a shareholder. He had been accused by his superiors of peculation. His father’s position, backing his remonstrances, kept the case from coming into the police court. The matter was “squared,” as the slang term has it. A public scandal was averted. But certain persons at least would know the secret. The Blewton name was smirched. This his reverence would never forgive.

Henry walked with a rapid pace down Brixton Hill, for on that reputable eminence his father’s house was situated; passed through Kennington, along the Westminster Bridge Road, crossed the bridge, passed under the shadow of the clock tower, and went up to a recruiting sergeant who stood at the corner of Parliament Street.

During that walk the circumstances of Henry Blewton underwent many important changes. To begin with, he had changed his name, his age, and his occupation. He enlisted, passed the doctor with credit, and blossomed eventually into Private Nott of a valiant regiment of the line.

From that moment all trace of Henry Blewton became lost to his friends and relatives, and for years they mourned for him as people mourn for the dead. His concluding prophecy, delivered with such meaning to his father, came true. Time set him right. He had not been a year in the army before the real delinquent was discovered; and, as the genuine sinner had no influential acquaintances on the directorate of the company, his case was remitted to the Old Bailey for the consideration of a judge and jury. He was found guilty, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Thus was the character of Henry Blewton vindicated.

Useless, alas! now were the regrets and repentances of his reverend father. Vain were the efforts of the private detectives whom he engaged. The advertisements that he caused to be inserted in the papers brought no response, and, after five years of fruitless labour and unavailing self-reproach, his family came to the conclusion that he was dead. He had perished from hunger, perhaps, or had hurried himself into the presence of his Maker, goaded to distraction by the paternal taunts. The reflection that his innocence had been established ameliorated to some little extent the pangs of mother and sister. But the very thought which gave them consolation added to the poignancy of the father’s feelings. He mourned in secret, and cried with the man of yore,—

“Would to God I had died for him! My son, my son!”

At the very point where Brixton Rise merges into Brixton Hill there is an avenue. It is a very well-kept avenue, and a stately row of young trees runs along each side of it. A notice-board informs the passers-by that there is “No Thoroughfare,” and that this trimly-kept approach is “Private.” On some fine days honest people are beguiled by the spectacle of half-a-dozen men with cropped hair and unbecoming uniform repairing the roadway. These operators are directed by another person. He is also in uniform, and carries side arms and a musket—for the avenue leads to Brixton Gaol, and the sullen road-menders are inmates of that suburban retreat. It is perhaps within the knowledge of the reader that military prisoners are now received in the Brixton seminary; if not, the reader must take it from me that it is so.

One wild November morning the gates of Brixton Gaol opened and let loose a prisoner who had been confined for an assault on his superior officer, that gallant captain having contributed somewhat to the offence by dubbing the man a thief. He was a fine, soldierly-looking young fellow of two-and-twenty, though he looked much more. When he came to the end of the avenue he found the chaplain waiting there, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather.

“Good-morning,” said the chaplain—a kind-hearted Devonshire parson, who took more than the usual perfunctory interest in his patients, as he was wont to call them.

“Good-morning, sir,” replied the soldier, respectfully, and with an accent of surprise.

“You have no money, I suppose?”“Not a sou, your reverence,” replied the man.

“Then,” said the chaplain, “here are two shillings. They will at least keep you for a day or two. Seek work and keep honest. God bless you.”

“Heaven reward you!” replied the man, writhing under the kindness of the clergyman. The visitant to the outer world did not move, however. He looked up and down the hill, as if hesitating in what direction he should go.

“That,” said the parson, pointing down the hill, “that is the way to London”—saying which he turned up the avenue, and so re-entered the precincts of the gaol. But the man did not take the direction indicated by his benefactor. There was something in the atmosphere of Brixton which seemed to agree with him. He found its attractions more considerable than do most visitors to the noted locality. He wandered in an aimless way up and down by-streets. But the police—always solicitous about the welfare of discharged prisoners—kept their eyes on him. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. And he repeated with something of bitter irony in his tone the parting admonition of the chaplain.

“‘Seek work and keep honest!’ No easy matter, Mr. Parson, with these sleuth-hounds on the trail.”

Towards evening he entered a small beer-house in the Cornwall Road, a thoroughfare not far removed from the gaol. Here he refreshed himself with bread and cheese and beer. Here also he found company who did not object to his society, for it is a comforting reflection that there are more wicked people outside gaols than in them. And among these excellent fellows he spent the time, until at the hour of twelve the landlord was obliged to turn his customers into the bleak and blustrous night.

The man bade good-bye to his companions, and sought the high road. He proceeded up the hill with his back turned on London. When he came to the substantial house of the Rev. Stanley Blewton he stopped, looked up and down the road to see that he was not followed, and then passed into the clergyman’s front garden, creeping forward under the shadow of the bushes.At one o’clock in the morning the reverend occupant of the house was wakened by a noise below; he listened, warned his wife to keep quiet, drew on his trousers, took his revolver, and crept downstairs in his naked feet. Yes, the thief had entered the library. Mr. Blewton was, as we have seen, a person of some determination. He opened the library door and said,—

“Speak, or I’ll fire.”

“It is—” But the voice was not allowed to proceed. The sound indicated the position of the robber. The minister fired two barrels in the direction of the voice, and heard a body fall with a groan of—

“Oh—father—you—have—killed—me!”

Then there was silence. Then another groan, and the fall of another man. When the servants came with a light they found the dead body of the father stretched by the dead body of the son.