"You have saved my life."

"Nonsense," I answered; "the scoundrels were cowards and bolted the moment I came in sight."

"I tell you, sir, they would have murdered me, and flung my body into the river, where I should have become another 'Thames Mystery,' There were three of them—the wretches!"

"Valuables safe?" I asked.

The man felt his pockets.

"Lost my watch and chain," he said. "Easily replaced; but, if they had taken my life, who would have carried out my mission?"

"Your mission? May I inquire the nature of it?"

"You may; it is to make men and women happy."

"I understand; you preach."

"Quite wrong; I practise."

"You mystify me."

"Very likely," the strange-looking individual replied. "My conduct is at variance with the world's. I never seek to harm any one, and all my time is devoted to forwarding the interests of others."

Men with a grievance are plentiful enough, but a person whose sole object in life is to diffuse happiness is rather uncommon. In this age of iron such good-natured persons are looked upon with a suspicion of lunacy.

"Very commendable," I said; "but I am still in the dark as to how you attain such desirable ends."

"Of course you are, my worthy friend; but I hope to enlighten you. Answer me one question; are you single—a bachelor?"

"I am, and in no hurry to call any woman my wife."

"A misogamist," he muttered to himself; and then aloud, "I am glad you are single, because you will have occasion to rejoice that you met me—that you came to my assistance. You have rendered me one great favour; will you do me another?"

"If it's in my power," I replied.

"There is my card; dine with me to-morrow at 7."

I consented, but it was with some hesitation. I let him go, and I asked myself whether it was not the correct thing to place a philanthropist of this kind under some restraint. There is a society in work to suppress promiscuous charity, and for aught I know there may be an institution founded for the express purpose of shutting up universal benefactors.

His card bore the address, "Mr. Albert Dove, 1090, Finsbury Square, E.C."

The foregoing conversation took place on the Thames Embankment, near Waterloo Bridge, one stormy night in March of the present year.

Descending Savoy Street on my way to Scotland Yard, I heard a scuffle and a cry for help, and, knowing the bad reputation of the Embankment at that particular spot, I hastened to the rescue—with the result already told.

This chance encounter made me acquainted with a new phase of life abounding in striking scenes touching most notes of the gamut of existence.

My newly-acquired friend was not only peculiar in his speech, his appearance was out of the common. The first thing I noticed was his height, which was over six feet, and he looked taller on account of his high "chimney-pot" hat. His dark top-coat was closely-buttoned up to his chin, and reached down to his heels. It was impossible to judge of the man by his face, as it was covered by a tangled mass of black hair. His moustache and beard showed that not much time was spent in trimming them, and, taking advantage of their freedom, they rivalled each other in roughness and length. In his right hand Mr. Dove carried a heavy stick of black oak, typical of the robust build of the owner, and his recent assailants had cause to congratulate themselves that the suddenness of their attack prevented its being used.

For a man of his dimensions his eyes were exceedingly small, but what they lost in size they made up in brilliancy. If his eyes were diminutive, his arms were long—longer even than his great height justified; and when he walked he threw them about in the most irregular manner, just as if they were ready to go to war with each other, but neither one nor the other cared to take the initiative.

His mode of locomotion would draw attention to him anywhere, be it at church or fair. He was a most inelegant walker; each step seemed to be a combination of the jerk and shuffle, and, coupling this peculiarity with the slightly stooping body and lengthy arms, I thought that the man must be a little deformed, perhaps hump-backed. From a rough-cast individual like this you would naturally expect a harsh voice, but it was quite the reverse; his voice was musical to a degree, and he spoke as softly as any young woman addressing her lover.

It is not often we come across men of his disposition of mind or formation of body. But if the shell was gnarled, the kernel within was sound enough, and, strange as was Mr. Dove's business in life, you had only to become acquainted with him to be convinced that his chief aim was not the amassing of riches, but the well being of the men and women who entrusted their future to him.

But I must not anticipate—the extraordinary circumstances will be narrated as they befell me. Curious to know who Mr. Dove was, and what occupation he followed, I consulted Kelly's Directory, but without being made any the wiser. His name and address were correctly given, but nothing more. The man was unknown at Scotland Yard, except to one officer, who said he recollected the name of Dove cropping up some years ago in connection with a divorce case.

Punctual to the hour appointed, my cab drew up at 1090, Finsbury Square. In answer to my knock the door was opened by a negro servant, in a handsome light blue livery, who took my hat and coat, and ushered me, much to my surprise, into a drawing-room full of elegantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, all engaged in agreeable conversation, intermingled with much laughter. I expected to dine quietly with Mr. Dove, and here were at least twenty guests, all entire strangers to me. The moment the servant pronounced my name, my host—who was quite a giant in comparison with his guests—came forward from a knot of ladies, with whom he was exchanging some pleasantry, and warmly welcomed me. Taking me round the company, he said—

"You will have great pleasure in becoming acquainted with the gentleman who saved my life."

"I was talking about you when you entered," addressing himself to me, "and explaining to my dear friends how much they are indebted to you. Without your valuable assistance last night, there would have been no joyous dinner—no spirit-stirring dance here this evening; and, alas! who would have administered to the wants of my flock?"

His language led me to suppose that my first idea was correct, that he was really a clergyman—perhaps of some new denomination. His appearance was very singular, and his manner eccentric, but not unpleasing. He appeared to be about forty-five, but the wrinkles on his forehead may have made him seem older than he really was.

I had hardly time to say that he made a great deal too much of the slight service, when dinner was announced by a pompous-looking butler dressed in black.

"You will take charge of Miss Bertram," my host said, with a wave of his hand in the direction of a pretty but pert-looking young lady eighteen or nineteen years of age, who at that instant entered the room, and who advanced without the slightest shyness, and placed the tips of her fingers on my arm.

The dining-room was on the other side of the entrance-hall, and during the short promenade, and while the guests were seating themselves, and during the progress of the dinner, the conversation never flagged for a moment—it was like the incessant roll of musketry.

The guests, with the exception of myself, were evidently well known to each other, and appeared very much at home. The host, by his genial manner, contributed not a little to the general cheerfulness, and he was exceedingly attentive to me.

The plate on the table, and the numerous paintings on the walls, to say nothing of the well-drilled servants in attendance, all betokened wealth. Mr. Dove must have money, and a good deal of it too; but what was his position in life, and who were the ladies and gentlemen assembled round his dinner-table?

The highly self-possessed young lady I took in to dinner, thinking, no doubt, I was a stranger, kindly entered into conversation with me as soon as we were seated at table.

"An odd collection," was her first remark.

Presuming that she referred to the numerous pictures hanging round the room, I replied—

"They do look curious. Good and bad, I suppose. Are they all English?"

This commonplace answer made her laugh.

"There are a few doubtful specimens among the French, but the most reputable are the English," she said.

"Perhaps Mr. Dove is not so easily deceived by the English; even experts are liable to be taken in by the artful French and Italian counterfeits."

Unknown to myself, I must have said something very funny, for Miss Bertram could not control her laughter.

"Does not our host get imposed on sometimes by worthless rubbish?" I asked.

When she could stop giggling she said—

"He makes mistakes of course, but he has been wonderfully successful. His knowledge of human nature is immense, and his foresight amounts to genius. These attributes account for his having so few failures."

Not perceiving what human nature and foresight had to do with buying pictures, I endeavoured to bring back the conversation to a lower and more comprehensible level.

"Does he make it the business of his life to pick up these splendid specimens?" I asked.

"I believe so; but speak lower in case the colonel opposite hears you; he might object, and he is a regular fire-eater. Coffee and pistols, you know."

"I would not hurt his feelings for the world. Is he interested in the speculation?"

"He is after the Queen of Sheba; the one with the bird of Paradise feather."

"After the Queen of Sheba, is he? Then there is a sale occasionally?"

"There is, but we call it by a different name, though it comes to much the same thing in the end."

"The specimens are, perhaps, disposed of privately to avoid the publicity of the auction-room."

The girl burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which drew attention to us.

"Glad you are enjoying yourself," called out Mr. Dove to me; "a glass of wine with you."

The middle-aged lady in red velvet on my left hand uttered some unpleasant observations about the forwardness of young ladies in general, and of Miss Bertram in particular, and the colonel on the other side of the table looked daggers at me; as if I could help it.

"Tell me the joke, and I will laugh, too," I whispered to my fair friend.

"Is this your first visit?" she asked, as if an idea had just occurred to her.

"The first."

"What are the symptoms? Are you an admirer of the classic, and is it blonde or brunette?"

This was beyond me, and I looked at the young girl in astonishment, which only redoubled her laughter. The horrible thought just then entered my head that I was in a private lunatic asylum; everything tended to confirm me in that opinion, and the marvel was that the truth had not dawned on my obtuse mind before. I had often been told that all mad doctors are, more or less, eccentric—that their attendance on insane people has, through course of time, an injurious effect on their own minds; and here was an example in the case of Mr. Dove!

The guests were no doubt his patients, and the stalwart men in waiting the keepers, ready to control any obstreperous individual, with their straight jackets, and bands of leather and iron in some convenient cupboard close at hand.

It is I know the belief of some doctors that it would be all the better for the afflicted ones if they were treated more like sane individuals, and were indulged in dinner parties and balls as if they still belonged to the outer world. I cautiously examined my fellow guests one by one, but I could discern nothing approaching the extravagant in their conduct, but everybody has heard of the wonderful cunning of lunatics; this evening they were evidently on their best behaviour.

As I glanced round the circle my eyes at length met the mirthful eyes of Miss Bertram, who was evidently watching me, and enjoying my perplexity. Was she mad, too? At first I was inclined to think she was rather an intelligent young woman—anything but stupid—but now the incoherent portion of her remarks rose up to condemn her. I was in the act of pitying her when she whispered behind her fan—

"Is it a very bad attack?"

It is necessary to humour mad people, so I replied—

"Not very; I feel quite myself at times."

She burst out laughing, and before she could recover herself the ladies rose from the table, and being next the door I did my duty. As Miss Bertram passed me with a sweeping bow, she said—

"Don't despair; have confidence in the doctor."

Before placing me in an assembly of lunatics, Mr. or Dr. Dove ought to have made me aware of the insanity of his guests. There was no telling what awkward things might have happened. When the ladies returned I sought an opportunity of speaking to him on the subject, but the gentlemen crowded up to his end of the table, and I had no chance. For a set of madmen, I must say their talk was rational enough; and, when the colonel, on whom the claret had a friendly effect, challenged me to a game of billiards, I could not but consent, and get well beaten on attempting to give points.

"Yes, go with the colonel," Mr. Dove said; "you have time for a game before the dancing commences."

I should have liked to mention the Queen of Sheba to the colonel, but he did not seem a man you could take a liberty with, and I thought better of it. Another lunatic was polite enough to mark the game, and called out the score with such accuracy that I at once set him down as an old billiard-marker.

When we had got through two games the sound of music reached us, and we returned to the drawing-room. The ball was in full progress, and it was a strange sight to see the huge and ungainly figure of our host moving amongst the dancers playing the fiddle. He was evidently an excellent performer, and it was to his music his patients danced. Occasionally he would waltz round the room playing his instrument all the time. His resemblance to the mythical satyr would at once strike an ordinary onlooker.

"A good dance makes people cheerful, and assists my cause," he remarked, as he waltzed past me.

"Many a happy wife has occasion to bless the Blue Danube," he whispered on another occasion.

"Come and see a recent success," he said in one of the short intervals; and I was led up and introduced to a shy-looking little man of fifty, and anything but a reserved young woman of twenty-five, his wife, who both looked happy enough, and seemed perfectly cured. Show patients, I presumed.

"For the encouragement of others," he whispered in my ear. "Won't you dance? There is Miss Bertram disengaged. Most accomplished girl. Daughter of an old friend. A sad history; but I will tell you all about her in my study, for you must smoke a cigar with me before you go."

Until the circumstances were cleared up a bit I considered it advisable not to dance with Miss Bertram or any other lady.

It was a new experience, and I could not be too cautious.

When we were closeted in the study by our two selves, with a good cigar and a brandy and soda, I soon approached the subject which was troubling my mind. I thought Mr. Dove would have died of laughing at my extraordinary mistake in taking his house to be a private lunatic asylum. He stamped and danced about the room in his uproarious glee, and I could not get a word out of him for some time—until he was thoroughly exhausted.

I must admit that when I heard the name of the establishment I was greatly surprised, but it must be remembered that there is not a similar house to 1090, Finsbury Square, in her Majesty's dominions.

"If love is lunacy," my host said, waving his hand toward the ball-room, "you are right, but my patients reside in an abode of joy, not of sorrow, and they are free to depart at any time—in couples."

In other words, the place was a Matrimonial Agency.