"If he dies," muttered he to me, "I'll—"

What he meant to say I do not know. He stopped short and flung himself in the empty seat by the window, trembling all over. I had never known before how fond he was of the poor boy.

"What about his mother?" he said presently, turning to me.

"I couldn't find her, or hear of her anywhere," I said. "But I left a message for her."

Just then my uncle beckoned with his hand.

Billy had opened his eyes, and was looking about him. He had done so once or twice before, but always in a vacant, stupid sort of way. Now, to our intense joy, there was a glimmer of something like the old life in his pale face, especially when, catching sight of Jack, who sprang to his side in a moment, his features broke into a faint smile.

My uncle came quietly to me across the room.

"I'll go now," said he—more kindly than I had ever heard him speak. "I shall stay in town to-night, and will look in in the morning;" and so saying he went.

Mr Smith and I accompanied him to the door. As we were returning up the stairs some one called after us. I turned, and saw that the new- comer was Billy's mother.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

HOW I GOT RID OF THE PETTY-CASH, AND OF MR. SMITH'S SECRET.

Billy's mother was, for the first time in my experience, sober. I stayed behind for her on the stairs, while Mr Smith retired to his own room, saying he would come up and see us all in the morning. I wished he would have stayed and countenanced me in my interview with the unhappy woman.

"What's all this, mister?" she said, as she came up.

Once, possibly, Billy's mother might have been a handsome and even attractive woman, but drink had defaced whatever beauty she once had, and had degraded her terribly, as it always does, both in body and mind.

"Billy has been badly hurt," I said, "and we thought you ought to come."

"Who hurt him?" she demanded.

There was no sympathy or even concern in her tone. She spoke like a person to whom all the world is an enemy, in league to do her wrong.

"There was a struggle," I said. "A man was hitting Mr Smith—"

"Mr Smith!" she exclaimed, fiercely; "who's he—who's Mr Smith?"

"Why, my friend who sometimes goes to see you in the court."

"Oh!" said she, with a contemptuous laugh, "that fool!"

"Some one was striking him, and Billy put himself between them, and was badly hurt."

"Well, what's come to him? Is he dead, or what?" demanded the woman.

"No, he's not, mercifully," said I. "He's getting better, we hope."

"And you mean to say," said the woman, with her wrath rising, "you've got that child among you, and you're not content with robbing him and keeping him away from me, but here you've half-murdered him into the bargain, you— Where is he, mister? I'll take him back along with me; I've had enough of this tomfoolery, I tell you."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, "it would kill him to move him! You mustn't think of it."

"Get out of the way!" she exclaimed, fiercely, trying to push past me. "I'll take him out of this. I'll teach you all whose child the boy is! Get out of my way! Let me go to him."

What could I do? I had no right to keep a mother from her son; and yet, were she to carry out her threat, no one could say what the result to the boy might not be.

In my dilemma I thought of Mr Smith, and conducted my intractable visitor to his room, in the hopes that he might be able to dissuade her from carrying out her threat.

But nothing he could do or say could bring her to reason. She appeared to be persuaded in her own mind that the whole affair was a conspiracy to do her some wrong, and that being so, entreaties, threats, and even bribes would not put her off her idea of taking Billy away with her.

"Come now," said she, after this ineffectual parley had gone on for some time, "I'm not going to be made a fool of by you two any more. Where's Billy? where are you hiding him? It's no use you trying to impose on me with your gammon!"

"He's upstairs," said I, feeling that further resistance was worse than useless. "I'll run up and tell Jack you're coming. Billy may be asleep."

But the woman caught me roughly by the arm. "No, no!" said she, "I don't want none of your schemes and plots; I can go up without your help, mister."

So saying, she broke away from us and went up the stairs.

"Don't follow her," said Mr Smith; "the fewer up there the better. Jack will manage."

So we spent an anxious half-hour, listening to the voices and sound of feet above, and wondering how the interview was going on. Evidently it began with an altercation, and once Billy's shrill treble joined in in a way which sounded very familiar. Eventually the angry tones of the woman ceased, and presently she returned to us, quiet in her manner, though still hunted-looking and mistrustful.

To our relief she was alone.

"I'm coming for him in the morning," said she as she passed us.

We could never make out how Jack had subdued her and put her off. When we asked him, he said simply he begged her to wait a little, at any rate, till the boy was better, and had then promised to bring him home himself.

That night I shared Mr Smith's room—or rather I occupied it during his absence, leaving Jack and Billy in possession upstairs.

My reflections during the night were not pleasant. If it had not been for my folly, my sin, in times past, the calamity of this evening would never have happened. These "friends" of former days were not to be shaken off as easily as they had been picked up, and meanwhile it was not I who was made to suffer, but Jack and Billy, who had never been guilty of my follies and sins. And, more than this, I felt the burden of Mr Smith's secret still hanging unrelieved on my mind. And how was I to get rid of it and tell. Jack all, while this anxiety about Billy lasted?

In the early morning Mr Smith returned, and I confided to him all my troubles. He was very sympathetic, and agreed with me that the present was hardly the time to tell Jack his secret. And yet it was plain to see he was in terrible suspense till it should be all over.

We did not sleep much that night, and in the morning hastened to the room above. To our relief, we found Billy much better. He was even grinning as usual as we entered, and greeted us both in very like his old familiar way.

"What cheer!" said he, feebly but cheerily. "I are got a dose off that there Mashing! He do give yer toppers!"

"Come, hush, Billy!" said Jack, pleasantly; "didn't I tell you not to talk?"

"Yaas," said the boy, relapsing abruptly into silence.

His mother, as we rather anticipated, did not put in an appearance. My uncle did, and, after ascertaining that all was going on well, went off, leaving, greatly to my astonishment and not a little to my gratification, a sovereign in my hand as he said good-bye.

There was something kindly about my uncle, after all!

Leaving Mr Smith in charge, Jack and I went down to the office that morning with lighter hearts than we had expected to have.

Crow was waiting for us outside the office, with an anxious face.

"I say," said he, as he came up, and not heeding Jack's wrathful looks, "is it true what I hear, that that boy was killed last night?"

"Who told you so?" demanded Jack.

"I heard it from Daly. And Masham has bolted. Is it true, then?"

"No!" said Jack, "and no thanks to you it isn't, you coward!"

Crow had evidently been too much frightened by the news he had heard to resent this hard name. He answered, meekly, "I'm glad it's not true. I'm ashamed of that affair last night, and there's no harm in telling you so."

This was a good deal to come from a fellow like Crow. We did not reply, but entered the office.

There, for a few hours at least, hard work drove away all other cares. At dinner-time Jack rushed home, and brought back a further good report of the patient, whom the doctor had seen, and pronounced to be making satisfactory progress.

As for me, I stayed at the office and made up for the lost time of the evening before. Part of my work was a grand balancing up of the petty- cash, which, as Hawkesbury was due back next morning, I would then have to be prepared to hand over. It was no small satisfaction to find that my accounts were right to a penny, and to know that in the fair copy of those accounts which I drew up no ingenuity or patience would be able to discover an error. Indeed, I was so particular, that, having made a minute blot in my first fair copy, I went to the trouble of writing out another, absolutely faultless, preserving the other in my desk, as an occasional feast to my own eyes in my self-satisfied moments.

That evening I was strongly tempted to unburden my secret to Jack as we walked home. But I could not bring myself up to the point. At least, I could not do so till we got to the door of our lodgings, and then it was too late, for Jack had rushed to Billy's bedside, and it was hopeless to get him to think of anything else. So I had to wait on, and once more to endure the sight of Mr Smith's anxious, frightened face.

The following morning brought a letter from my uncle, addressed, not to me, but to Jack Smith. It contained a five-pound note, which he said might be useful when Billy's doctor's bill had to be paid, and anything that was over might go to buy the boy a suit of clothes! My uncle was certainly coming out in a new light! It was like him writing to Jack instead of me, and I thought nothing of that. But for him to send a five-pound note for the benefit of a little stranger was certainly a novelty, which surprised as much as it encouraged me about my relative.

The money, as it happened, was very opportune, for neither of us was very flush of cash at the time.

Billy, who was now steadily recovering from the shock of his blow, pleaded very hard to be allowed to get up, and only Jack's express command could keep him in bed.

"Ga on, governor," said he, "let's get up. I ain't a-getting no coppers for that there penny bang, no more I ain't; and I ain't a-larnin' nothink, and she," (we knew only too well whom he meant), "may be up to all manner of larks, and me not know nothink about it."

"You shall get up soon, when you're better," was Jack's reply.

"I are better, governor."

"Yes, but you won't be unless you lie still for a day or two more, and do what you're told," said Jack, firmly.

Whereat the boy subsided.

Hawkesbury turned up at his place at the office in a benevolent frame of mind, and received over my petty-cash and the beautiful copy of accounts which accompanied it with the utmost condescension.

He was extremely obliged to me, he said, for taking charge of the accounts during his absence, and had no doubt he would find everything correct when he went through the figures. He hoped it had not given me much extra work, and that during his absence I had been in the enjoyment of good health and spirits.

All which "gush" I accepted with due gratitude, wondering inwardly whether he had been actually made a partner since I last saw him—he was so very gracious.

"By the way," said I, when the ceremony was at an end, and feeling a little mischievously inclined, as well as being anxious to vent my feelings on the point—"by the way, your particular friend Masham came to our lodging the other evening."

"Ah, did he?" said Hawkesbury, blandly; "I'm glad he called. He wanted to see you again. He took rather a fancy to you that day, you know."

"Did he?" said I. "I think he was rather sorry he called, though."

"Why?"

"Why, because Smith gave him the thrashing he deserved, and the thrashing he's not likely to forget in a hurry either!"

"I don't understand," said Hawkesbury. "What has Smith to do with my friend Masham?"

"Just what he has to do with any other blackguard," retorted I, warming up.

"Batchelor, you are forgetting yourself, I think," said Hawkesbury. "I hope what you are saying is not true."

"If you mean about Masham being a blackguard," said I, "it's as true as that he is your friend."

"I really don't know what all this means," said Hawkesbury, haughtily. "I must ask Masham himself."

"I'm afraid you won't find him," I said. "He nearly murdered the boy who was with us at the time. And as the report went out that the child was actually dead, he is prudently keeping out of the way for the present. I'm sure he will be—"

"Excuse me, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, interrupting. "I really haven't time to talk now. Kindly get on with your work, and I will do the same."

I may not have derived much good by this edifying conversation, but I had at least the satisfaction of feeling that Hawkesbury now knew what I thought of his friend.

Jack said that evening he thought it was a pity I had said as much as I had, and further reflection made me think the same. However, it couldn't be helped now, and anything that made clear the estimation in which I held Masham was on the whole no bad thing.

That evening when we got back we found Mr Smith at home. He had come, he said, to insist on taking Jack's place with Billy for the night. Jack protested in vain that he felt quite fresh, that he was not in the least sleepy, and so on. Mr Smith was inexorable for once, so we had finally to retire together to the room downstairs, and leave him in possession.

As we said good-night he gave me a look which I well understood.

"It's awful nonsense," said Jack, "making out I want sleep. Why, I've slept most of every night I've been up there. I'm sure more than he has."

"He thinks a good deal about you, Jack, I fancy," said I, anxious to steer the talk round in the required direction. Jack nodded and went and opened the window.

"It's awfully close to-night," said he.

We stood leaning out of the window for some minutes, watching the few passengers in the street below and saying nothing. What Jack was thinking about I could not tell. What was passing through my mind I knew well enough.

"How do you think he seems?" asked I, after a long pause.

"Who, Billy? He's getting on wonderfully."

"I didn't mean Billy," said I. "I meant Mr Smith."

"Oh, you ought to know better than I do. I really have hardly seen him the last few days. I've not heard him cough so much, though."

"He's not been himself at all the last few days," I said.

"No wonder," said Jack. "That night's work was enough to upset anybody."

"Oh, I don't mean in that way," I said, feeling hopeless as to ever getting out my secret. "Though I am sure he was very much concerned about Billy. But he seems to have other things on his mind too."

"Has he? He works too hard, that's what it is; and not content with that," added he, "he insists on sitting up all night with Billy."

There was another pause. I was no nearer than before, and for any hint I had given Jack of what was coming he knew as little of it as he did of the North Pole.

I must be more explicit, or I should never get out with it.

"Do you know, Jack," said I presently, "he's been telling me a good deal of his history lately?"

"Oh," said Jack, "you two have got to be quite chummy. By the way, we ought to hear the result of the exam, on Tuesday, certainly."

"It is very strange and sad," said I, thinking more of what was in my mind than of what he was saying.

"What do you mean? They oughtn't to take more than a week surely to go through the papers."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about that," I said. "I was thinking of Mr Smith's story."

"Why, what's up with you, Fred? You've gone daft about Mr Smith, surely. What's strange and sad?"

"The story of his life, Jack. He was once—"

"Stop," said Jack, firmly. "I dare say it's all you say, Fred, but I'd rather you didn't tell it me."

"Why not?" I said.

"He told it to you, but not to me. If he wants me to know it, he will tell me himself."

I could not but feel the rebuke. Had I but been as careful of another secret, half my troubles would never have come upon me.

"You are quite right, Jack," I said. "I know by this time that I should have no business to tell other people's secrets. But, as it happens, Mr Smith is anxious for me to tell you his story; and that is the reason, I believe, why he has insisted on leaving us together to-night."

I had launched my ship now!

Jack looked at me in a puzzled way.

"Wants you to tell me his story?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He has a reason. I think you had better hear it, Jack."

Jack was no fool. He had wits enough to tell him by this time that in all this mysterious blundering talk of mine there was after all something more serious than commonplace tittle-tattle. My face and tone must have proved it, if nothing else did.

He remained leaning out of the window by my side as I told him that story in words as near those of Mr Smith himself as I could recall.

He interrupted me by no starts or exclamations, but remained silent, with his head on his hands, till the very end.

Indeed, he was so still after it was all told that for a moment I felt uneasy, lest he was taken ill.

But presently he looked up, with his face very pale, and said, "I can scarcely believe it, Fred."

There was nothing in his tone or look to say whether the disclosure came to him as good news or bad. I longed to know, but I dared not ask. A long silence followed. He sat down on a chair with his face turned from me. I felt that to say another word would be a rude disturbance.

After a while he rose and said, in a voice very low and trembling, "I'll go up stairs, Fred."

"No," said I, taking his arm and gently leading him back to his chair. "I'll go up, old boy, and look after Billy to-night."

He did not resist, and I hastened up.

Mr Smith met me at the door with anxious face.

"Well?" he inquired, in a voice which trembled as much as Jack's had done.

"He knows all," I said.

"Yes? and—"

"And he is downstairs, expecting you," I said.

With a sigh very like a sob, Mr Smith left me and went down the stairs. All that long night, as I sat beside Billy and watched his fitful sleep, I could hear the sound of voices in the room below.

What they said to one another I never knew, and never inquired.

But next morning, when Jack came and summoned me to breakfast, his happy face and Mr Smith's quiet smile answered far more eloquently than words every question I could possibly have asked about that strange and sacred meeting between a lost father and a lost son.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

HOW JACK AND I TALKED LOUDER THAN WE NEED HAVE DONE.

About a week after the experiences narrated in the last chapter, my friend Smith and I went down one morning early to Hawk Street.

We usually took a short walk on our way when we happened to be early, and I don't exactly know why we did not do so this time. But certain it is that instead of reaching the office at half-past nine, we found ourselves there a few minutes before nine.

The housekeeper was sweeping the stairs and shaking the mats on the pavement as we arrived.

She naturally looked surprised to see us, and said she had the office yet to sweep out, and we had better take a walk.

But, being lazily disposed, we declined the invitation, and determined to brave the dust and go up.

The office was certainly not very tempting for work. The windows were wide open, and the din of omnibuses and other traffic from the street below was almost deafening. Stools and chairs were stacked together in the middle of the floor, and the waste-paper of yesterday littered the whole place. Even our own desks were thick with dust.

Under these depressing circumstances we were forced to admit that possibly the housekeeper was right, and that we had better take a walk.

"It's a nuisance," said I, "for I had to leave one or two things unfinished yesterday."

"I've a good mind to try," said Jack. "Unless I can catch up my work I shall have to stay late to-night, and I don't want to do that, as father is going to try to get away early."

So we dusted our desks as best we could, shut the windows to keep out the noise, recovered our stools from the assortment in the middle, and prepared to make the best of it.

"Do you know, Jack," said I, as I was getting out my papers, "it is so queer to hear you talking of Mr Smith as father? I can hardly realise it yet."

"No more can I, often," said Jack, "though I am getting more used to the idea."

"When are you going to take him to Packworth?" I asked.

"I'm not quite sure. He thinks he can get a week at the end of this month, and I shall try to get the partners to let me take my holiday at the same time."

"I hope you'll be able to manage it."

"So do I. Poor father is in very low spirits at the prospect of meeting Mary, I think. You know we shall have to tell her everything."

"Will you? Is it necessary?"

"Oh, yes. At least father says it is. If she were to hear of his story from any other source, he says he would never dare see her again. It will be far better to tell her. But I wish it was over."

"So do I," I said. "Poor Mary!"

I had got quite into the way of talking of her to Jack by her Christian name, as if she were my sister as well as his.

"I suppose," said I, "she will still live with Mrs Shield at Packworth?"

"Oh, yes, for the present. There's no place to bring her to in London till we get a little better off."

"I hope that won't be very long," said I.

"I'm afraid father's situation on the staff of the Banner is not a very—"

"Hush!" I exclaimed, suddenly.

We had remained, so far, in undisturbed possession of the office, and there was no chance of any new-comer entering without our knowing. But while Jack was speaking I thought I heard a sound, not on the stairs outside, but in the partners' room, which opened out of the counting- house.

Suppose one of the partners had been there all the while, and heard all we had said.

Jack stopped dead in his talk, and with pale face looked inquiringly at me.

"I thought I heard a noise in there," said I, pointing to the door.

"What?" said Jack, with a gasp. The same thought was evidently crossing his mind which had crossed mine.

"It can't be either of the partners," whispered he, "at this hour."

"We'd better see," said I; "it may be a thief."

We went quietly to the door. All was silent as we listened; and yet I felt I could not have been mistaken about the noise. The door was closed to, but not fastened. Jack opened it softly.

There, sitting at the partners' table, with his head on his hands, apparently absorbed in work, and unconscious of everything else, sat— Hawkesbury!

A spectre could not have startled and horrified us more!

At first he did not seem to be aware of our presence, and it was not till Jack advanced a step, and involuntarily exclaimed "Hawkesbury!" that he looked up in a flurried way.

"Why, Smith!" he exclaimed, "and Batchelor! What a start you gave me! What are you doing here at this hour, and in this room?"

"We've been here a quarter of an hour," said Jack, solemnly.

"Have you? How quiet you've been!"

This, at any rate, was a relief. He could hardly have heard our conversation.

"But what are you doing in here?" he added, in an important voice. "You must know this room is private, and not for the clerks."

"We heard a noise," said I, "and did not know who was here."

Hawkesbury smiled incredulously.

"All I can say is," said he, "I hope you are not in the habit of coming in here when you are by yourselves in the office. But kindly leave me now—I am busy."

He had a lot of papers spread out on the table before him, which he was gathering together in his hand while he spoke. Whether they were accounts, or letters, or what, we could not tell; but as there was nothing more to be said we withdrew to the counting-house. He followed us out in about five minutes, carrying the papers to his desk. Then, informing the housekeeper in an audible voice that he would just go and get breakfast, he left us to ourselves.

"What a mercy," said I, "he doesn't seem to have heard what we were talking about!"

Jack smiled bitterly.

"Unless I'm mistaken, he's heard every word!"

"Surely, Jack," I exclaimed, stunned by the very idea, "you don't mean that?"

"I'm sure of it."

Our feelings during the remainder of that day may be more easily imagined than expressed. If there was one person in the world more than another we would have wished not to hear what had been said, it was Hawkesbury. Thanks to my folly and meanness, he had known far too much as it was, before, and trouble had fallen on Jack in consequence. Now, if Jack's surmise was true, to what use might he not put the knowledge just obtained?

No one quite understood Hawkesbury. But I knew enough of him to see that jealousy of my friend Smith mixed up with all the motives for his conduct at Hawk Street. His tone of superiority, his favouring one clerk above another, his efforts to assert his influence over me had all been part of a purpose to triumph over Jack Smith. And yet, in spite of it all, Jack had held on his way, rising meanwhile daily in favour and confidence with his employers, and even with some of his formerly hostile fellow-clerks.

But now, with this new secret in his hand, Hawkesbury once more had my friend in his power, and how he would use it there was no knowing.

All that day he was particularly bland and condescending in his manner to me, and particularly pompous and exacting in his manner to Jack, and this, more than anything else, convinced me the latter was right in his suspicion.

Our discussion as we walked home that night was dismal enough. The brighter prospects which had seemed to dawn on Jack and his father appeared somehow suddenly clouded, and a sense of trouble hung over both our minds.

"One thing is certain," said Jack, "I must tell the partners everything now."

"Perhaps you are right—if there is any chance of his telling them. But he could surely hardly act so shamefully."

"It may be too late, even now," said Jack. "You know, when I was taken on at Hawk Street, and they asked me about my father, I said simply he was abroad. I've thought since it was hardly straightforward, and yet it didn't seem necessary to tell them all about it."

"Certainly not. Why should your prospects be ruined because your father—"

"Because my father," said Jack, taking me up quietly, "had lost his? That's what I thought. But perhaps they will think differently. At any rate, I will tell them."

"If you do," said I, "and they take it kindly, as I expect they will, I don't see what more harm he can do you."

"Unless," said Jack, "he thinks it his duty to tell the proprietors of the Banner."

"What possible good could that do him?" I asked.

"Why, he might as well think it his duty to tell Mary."

Jack said nothing, and we walked on, very uneasy and depressed.

When we arrived at our lodgings we found Billy, whose recovery was now almost complete, sitting up in the bed with a jubilant face.

"You're a-done it, governor," cried he, as we entered. "You are a-done it."

"Done what?" said Jack.

"Why, that there sam."

"What about it?" we cried, eagerly.

"Oh, that there flashy bloke, Flanikin, 'e comes up, and says 'e, 'Jack Smith in?' says he—meanin' you, governor. 'Ain't no concern of yourn,' says I—not 'olding with them animals as comes to see yer. 'Yes it is,' says 'e, a blowin' with the run he'd 'ad. 'Tell 'im the moment 'e comes in that 'e's fust in the sam,' says he."

"Hurrah!" I cried, forgetting everything in this good news. "Old man, how splendid!"

Jack too for a moment relaxed his grave face as he answered my greeting.

"I can hardly believe it," said he.

"Oh, there ain't no error, so I tells you," cried Billy, "the cove 'ad been up to the shop, he says, and copied it down. He was nigh off 'is 'ead, was that there Flanikin, and 'e's a-comin' in to see you 'imself, he says, afore eight o'clock."

And before eight Flanagan turned up and confirmed the glorious news with a printed list, in which sure enough "Smith" stood out distinctly in the first place.

"You know, I thought it might be another Smith," said Flanagan, laughing; "there are one or two of the same name in the world, I know. But there's not another in the list, so it's all right. I say, wouldn't old Henniker be proud of you now, my boy—eh, Fred? She'd let you sneeze without pulling you up for it, I do believe."

A letter by the evening post to Jack brought the official confirmation of the news from the examiners, and announced further that the distinction carried with it a scholarship worth L50 a year for three years.

In the midst of our jubilation, Mr Smith came in, and that evening, but for the morning's cloud which still hung over us, our happiness would have been complete.

The next day Jack took an early opportunity of seeking an interview with the partners, and making a clean breast to them of his birth and position. He gave me an account of the interview afterwards, and said that while Mr Merrett, as usual, took everything kindly and even sympathetically, Mr Barnacle was disposed to regard Jack's representation of himself on first coming to the office as not candid, and so blameworthy. However, they both agreed that he had done the proper thing in speaking out now, and willingly agreed to let him take his holiday at the time proposed, so as to accompany his father to Packworth.

So a great weight was taken off our minds, and the consciousness that now nothing remained concealed from our employers enabled us to bear Hawkesbury's lofty manner with comparative indifference.

I even yet had my doubts whether he could really have overheard our talk that morning. Nothing certainly that he said or did gave colour to the suspicion; only his almost deferential manner to me, and his almost scornful manner to Jack, seemed to hint that it might be so.

Jack's opinion, however, on the point was unshaken.

An uneventful fortnight passed. Billy was up again and back at his work as usual, except that he was strictly forbidden to walk about on his hands any more—a terrible hardship for the lad.

The first half-year's cheque of Jack's scholarship had come, and had been proudly deposited in the bank, as a nucleus of a fund in which father, son, and daughter were some day to participate.

And now the long-looked-for time had arrived when Jack and his father were to pay their promised visit to Packworth. I had seen them both half rejoicing in, half dreading the prospect; and now that I saw them actually start, I scarcely knew whether most to pity or envy them.

It was a lonely evening for me, the evening after I had seem them off. They had promised to write and tell me how they fared; but meanwhile I felt very desolate. Even Billy's company failed altogether to raise my spirits.

However, as it happened, that youth had some news to give me which at any rate tended to divert my mind for a time from my bereaved condition.

"I seen that Mashing agin," he said, abruptly.

"Did you? Where?"

"Down Trade Street. I was on a pal's beat there, for a change, and he comes and wants his boots blacked. I knows the animal, but he don't twig me, bein' off my beat. I would a-liked to give the beauty a topper, so I would; but, bless you, where's the use!"

"So you blacked his boots for him?"

"I did so. An' 'e got a pal along of him, and they was a-jawin' about a parson's son as owed Mashing fifteen pound, and saying as they'd crack him up if he didn't pay up. And then they was a-jawin' about the shine up here that night, and the pal was a-chaffin' Mashing cos of the wipin' my bloke give 'im, and Mashing he says he reckons he's quits with the prig—meaning the governor—by this time, he says. And t'other one say ''Ow?' And Mashing says as the governor's a conwex son, and he knows who Mr Conwex is, he says, and he are writ a letter to Miss Conwex, he says, down in the country, that'll open 'er goggle eyes, he says."

"What!" I exclaimed, starting from my seat, "he's written to Mary, the brute!"

"Dunno so much about your Mary, but that's what he says," replied Billy, composedly.

"When—when did he write—eh?" I cried.

"'Ow do I know?" retorted Billy, who evidently misunderstood and failed to appreciate my agitated manner.

"I aren't arsked 'im. Arst 'im yourself if you want to know."

And he drew himself up in evident dudgeon.

I didn't know what to do. It was no time to denounce or lament. The thought of the poor innocent girl receiving such a letter as Masham would be likely to write was too much to endure. If only I could prevent her seeing it!

"When did you hear all this?" I said to Billy.

"Find out. 'Tain't no concern of yourn," said the offended hero.

"But, Billy," said I, "it's most important. Do you, know that what Masham has done will make your Mr Smith miserable?"

Billy started at this.

"If I'd a known that, I'd a wrung his leg off," said he.

"But when was it? This morning?"

"No, last night."

Last night! Then the letter would already have reached Packworth, and long before Jack and his father arrived the happiness of her life would have been dashed.

It seemed no use attempting anything. I determined, however, to send a telegram to meet Jack on his arrival, so as to warn him, in case the letter should still be undelivered. I worded it carefully, for fear it might be opened before Jack arrived.

"Hawkesbury did hear our talk. He told Masham, who has written a letter to some one we both care for."

This I flattered myself was sufficiently unintelligible to any one but Jack.

I spent the rest of the evening in fighting against the tumult of my own feelings. My impulse had been to rush at once to Hawkesbury and charge him with his infamy. But what good would that do? And who was I, to prefer such a charge against another? My next was to find out Masham, and take some desperate revenge on him. But, after all, my only authority was Billy's report of a conversation overheard by him; and, though it might be all true, I had no right, I felt, without further proof, even if then, to do anything.

On the whole, I came to the conclusion I had better go to bed, which I did. But whether I slept or not the reader may guess.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

HOW HAWKESBURY AND I CAME ACROSS ONE ANOTHER RATHER SERIOUSLY.

It took a great effort to appear before Hawkesbury next morning as if I was not aware of his meanness. Now Jack was away, he once again put on an air of friendliness towards me which was particularly aggravating. Had he only made himself disagreeable, and given me an opportunity of venting my wrath, I should have been positively grateful. But to stand by all day and be simpered to, and even cringed to, was galling in the extreme.

I did once venture on a mild protest.

He was speaking to me about the coming holidays, and begging me in a most humble manner to choose what time I should like to take mine, assuring me that any time would do for him.

I suggested, curtly, that as Doubleday had not yet had his holiday I considered he had first choice.

"Oh," he said, "I don't think so. Besides, Batchelor, Doubleday and I could both be away at the same time; but I really would hardly feel comfortable in going unless you could take charge of the petty-cash while I am away."

"Smith will be back," I said; "he could do that for you."

As I expected, his face clouded.

"I can't agree with you there, Batchelor. But don't let us talk of that. I hope you will choose the time you would like best. I can easily arrange for any time."

"I don't know what makes you so wonderfully civil," said I, losing patience at all this soft soap. "After all that has happened, Hawkesbury, I should have thought you might have spared yourself this gush, as far as I was concerned."

"I would like bygones to be bygones between us, Batchelor. I know quite well I have been to blame in many things! I am sorry for them now, if it prevents our being friends."

And he smiled sweetly.

I gave it up in disgust, and let him say what he liked. It was not worth the trouble of preventing him, unless I was prepared for an open rupture, which just then I felt would be unwise, both on Jack's account and my own.

So he had the satisfaction of believing his sweetness had made its due impression on my savage breast, and of scoring to himself a victory in consequence.

As I had found it before, hard work proved now to be the best specific for dull spirits, and during the next few days I gave the remedy a full trial.

It seemed ages before any letter came from Packworth, and I was dying to hear. For meanwhile all sorts of doubts and fears took hold of me. How had that strange family meeting gone off? Had it been marred by Masham's cruel letter? or was the poor lost father once more finding happiness in the sight of one whom he had last seen an infant beside his dead wife? Surely if sympathy and common interest were to count for kinship, I was as much a member of that little family as any of them!

At last the letter came. It was from Jack:

"Dear Fred,—We got down on Wednesday. Father went that night to the hotel, as his heart failed him at the last moment. I went on to Mrs Shield's, and found your telegram on my arrival. I was horrified, but hardly surprised at what it told me. Happily, Mary was in bed, as I had not been expected till the morning, so I was able to explain all to Mrs Shield. She knew all about it before I told her; for the enclosed letter had arrived by the post in the morning, addressed to Mary. Mercifully, seeing it was in a strange hand, and, as I have often told you, being most jealously careful of Mary, Mrs Shield took it into her head to open the letter and read it before giving it to Mary, and you may imagine her utter horror. She of course did not let her see it, and thus saved the child from what would have been a fearful shock; and I was able to break it all to her gradually. Father is to come this evening—I am thankful it is all so well over.

"How are you getting on? Anything fresh at Hawk Street? I don't envy Hawkesbury or his friend their feelings just now; but I am determined to take no notice of this last brutal plot. Good-bye now.

"Yours ever,—

"J.S."

The enclosure, written in an evidently disguised hand, was as follows:—

"An unknown admirer thinks it may interest Mary Smith to know that her father is a common thief and swindler, who has just come back from fourteen years' penal servitude among the convicts. He is now living in London with his son, Mary's brother, who, Mary may as well know, is following close in his dear father's footsteps, however pious he may seem to others. This is the truth, or the writer would not have taken the trouble to send it. The best thing, if Mary wants to prevent the whole affair being made public, is to make her brother leave his place in London at once, and go somewhere in the country where he will be a nuisance to nobody."

My first feeling on reading this was one of devout thankfulness for the Providence which had kept it from falling into the hands for which it was designed. But my wrath soon drove out every other feeling—wrath ten times the more fierce because it was helpless.

I could do nothing. I might go and attempt to thrash Masham, or I might thrash Hawkesbury, who was equally to blame, if not more. But what good would it do? It would only make bad worse. Jack's secret, instead of being the private property of a few, would become common talk. I should be unable to bring positive proof of my charges, and even if I could, I should only be putting myself in the wrong by using force to redress my wrongs. No, after all, the only punishment was to take no notice of the affair, to let the two blackguards flatter themselves their plot had succeeded, and to leave them to find out as best they could that they had failed.

So I kept my hands resolutely in my pockets when next I met Hawkesbury, and consoled myself by picturing what his feelings would have been, had he known that that letter of his and his friend's was in my pocket all the time.

However, my resolution to have nothing to do with him was upset very shortly, and in an unexpected manner.

Since the eventful morning when Jack and I had had that unlucky conversation at Hawk Street, I had not again put in an appearance there before the stated time. Now, however, that I was all by myself in town, with very few attractions towards a solitary walk, and a constant sense of work to catch up at Hawk Street, it occurred to me one fine morning— I should say one wet morning—when the streets were very uninviting, to seek shelter at the unearthly hour of half-past eight in Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's premises.

The housekeeper, greatly to my satisfaction, was engaged in clearing out the offices below ours, so that I was able to ascend without challenge and establish myself at my desk. I had not been there five minutes when another footstep sounded on the stairs and Hawkesbury entered.

I had thought it quite possible he might be there when I arrived, and was therefore not nearly so surprised to see him as he appeared to see me.

"What, Batchelor!" he exclaimed, "are you here?"

"Yes," I replied, "are you?"

Why should he express such surprise, I wondered, at my doing just what he was doing?

"What brings you here at this hour?" he demanded, dropping for a moment the coaxing tone with which I had become so familiar the last day or two.

"What brings you here, for the matter of that?" I retorted.

If he thought I was going to clear out to please him, he was mistaken.

"Don't address me like that," he replied, with as great a tone of authority as he could assume. "I have a right to be here. You have none."

"Until I am told so by some one better than yourself I sha'n't believe it," I replied.

I was losing my temper fast. Masham's letter burned in my pocket, and the sight of this fellow giving himself airs to me was as much as I could stand.

Fortunately for us both, however, he did not prolong the discussion, but went to his desk.

It was evident, despite his assumed displeasure, he was very much put out about something. That something, I could not help thinking, must be my presence. He fidgeted about uneasily, looking now at the clock, now at me, now opening his desk, now shutting it, now scribbling on the paper before him, now tearing it up.

All this I saw as I tried to proceed steadily with my work. At last he brought me an envelope he had just addressed, and said in a rather more persuasive manner than he had yet assumed—

"Batchelor, would you kindly take this note round to Hodge and Company's? It is very important; they should have had it yesterday."

"Hodge's are never open till ten," I said.

"Oh yes, indeed they are. At least they expect this letter by nine o'clock. It's a bill of lading for their goods."

"If that's so," replied I, "the mail went out yesterday—you know that— and there's not another till Monday."

"Oh, but there's a letter with it that has to be attended to immediately."

"It's not been copied," said I, who had charge of the letter-book, and was responsible for copying everything that went out.

"I've kept a copy. I'll see to that. It's only to ask them to call round," he said, with evident confusion.

I did not believe a word he said. And more than that, I strongly suspected all this was a device to get me out of the office—and that was what I had no intention of submitting to.

"If it's to ask them to call round," I said, "it will do when the commissionaire comes at half-past nine."

"But I tell you it must be there at nine," he exclaimed.

"Then," said I, "you had better take it yourself."

I had ceased to be afraid of Hawkesbury, or the look with which he returned to his desk might have made me uneasy.

I could see that as the time went on he became still more uneasy.

Once more he came to me.

"Will you go with the letter?" he demanded angrily.

"No, I won't go with the letter," I replied, in decided tones.

"You'll be sorry for it, Batchelor," he said, in a significant way.

"Shall I?"

"You would not like my uncle and Mr Barnacle to be told of your early visits here without leave."

"They are quite welcome to know it."

"And of my catching you and Smith going into their private room."

"Where we found you," I replied, laughing, "busy at nobody knows what?"

He looked at me hard as I drew this bow at a venture, and then said, "You must know, Batchelor, that I have a right to sit in that room when I choose. And," he added, dropping his voice to a whisper and looking at me in a most significant way—"and if the door happens to be open, and if you and Smith happen to talk secrets, there's every chance of their being overheard!"

This was his trump card! If anything was to settle the question of my obeying him and taking Hodge and Company's letter, this was to do it.

"Then you did hear what was said?" I asked.

"Yes, I did," he said.

"And you mean to say—"

"I mean to say," said he, with a glance up at the clock, "that you had better take this letter at once, Batchelor."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't, your friend Smith shall smart for it."

Before I could make up my mind what to do—whether to feign alarm and take the letter, leaving him to suppose he still had the whip-hand over us, or whether to undeceive him at once, and defy him point-blank— before I could reply at all, the door suddenly opened, and Masham entered.

If anything was still wanted to decide me, this sufficed. I felt certain now that there was mischief on foot somewhere, and the appearance of this bird of ill-omen was sufficient to account for Hawkesbury's eagerness to get me out of the way.

What could have brought these two to arrange a meeting here, at the office, and at an hour when in the ordinary course of things no one else would be present?

I determined to stay where I was at all risks.

Masham on seeing me started, and looked inquiringly at Hawkesbury.

"What's he doing here?" he said. The very sound of his voice made my blood boil.

"He is going to take a letter to the Borough for me," said Hawkesbury, bestowing a meaning glance on me.

"I'm not going to take it," said I.

"What?" exclaimed Hawkesbury, in sudden fury.

"I'm not going to take it. I'm going to stay where I am."

"You know the consequences?" he muttered between his teeth.

"Yes."

"You know what it means for your friend Smith?"

"Yes."

He looked perplexed, as well he might. That I should defy him in the face of his threat against Jack Smith was the last thing he had expected, "Batchelor," said he, altering his tone suddenly to one of entreaty, "I have very important business to arrange with Masham. Would you mind leaving us for half an hour? I would not ask you, only I shall get into awful trouble if I can't talk to him alone for a little."

It passed my comprehension how, after threatening me with Jack's ruin, he should now turn round with such an appeal. And he put on such a beseeching manner that in the midst of my wrath I half pitied him. However, I was not to be moved. "If you want to see him so privately as all that," said I, "take him up to the sample-room. No one will disturb you there."

He gave me one look of hatred and menace, and then said to Masham, "We must fix another time, Masham; we can't go into the matter now."

"Eh?" said Masham, who had hitherto stood by in silence. "What do you say? If we can't do it now, we won't do it at all, my boy."

Hawkesbury went up to him and whispered something.

"Oh, we'll soon settle that!" said the other, laughing. "He won't go, won't he! We'll help him, that's all? Whereabouts is the coal-hole?"

So saying he made a grab at my arm, and before I could resist Hawkesbury had secured the other.

I struggled all I could, but unavailingly. Between them I was dragged up stairs to the sample-room, into which I were ignominiously thrust, and the door locked behind me. At first my rage and indignation were too great to allow me to think of anything but kicking at the door and shouting to my captors to release me. But this I soon discovered was fruitless, and in due time I gave it up, and resolved to wait my time and make the best of my lot.

That some mischief was afoot I now felt certain, and whatever it was, I felt equally sure it was being enacted during my imprisonment. Yet what could I do? I could only listen to the sound of voices below and speculate as to what was going on. Suddenly, however, it flashed across me that the room in which I was was not over the office, but over the partners' room, and that therefore the sounds I heard must proceed from thence.

What could they be up to? I heard a door open and shut, and a noise of what might have been keys, followed by a heavy slamming-to of something which, for the thud it gave, might have been the iron safe itself.

I felt very uncomfortable, but I was forced to remain chafing where I was for nearly half an hour, when the lock of my prison turned and the two entered the room. They both seized me as before.

"Now you can come down," said Masham.

"Not till he promises to say nothing about this," said Hawkesbury.

"He knows what to expect if he doesn't!" said Masham.

"After all," said Hawkesbury, "we didn't mean to hurt you; Masham and I only wanted to settle some horse-racing and other scores, and as the papers were all in my desk, we were bound to use the office, and of course I couldn't ask him round any other time. If you'd been half a gentleman, Batchelor, you would have left us at once."

"I don't believe you," I replied. "What did you want in the partners' room, I should like to know, eh?"

"What!" exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a rage. "We were never there, were we, Masham?"

"Never knew there was a partners' room," said Masham, "and if there had been, what if we had been in it?"

"We were in the counting-house all the time," said Hawkesbury. Then he added, "But come down now, and take my advice, Batchelor, and don't ruin yourself."

"Ruin myself!" cried I, with a scornful laugh; "I don't see how letting the partners know your goings on would ruin me."

"You'll see!" was the reply.

He doubtless considered the threat enough, but, knowing as I did that Jack had told the partners everything Hawkesbury could possibly tell, I could afford to treat it with contempt.

Masham took his departure, and I returned with Hawkesbury to the counting-house, where we were soon joined by our fellow-clerks.

I was very uncomfortable, and hardly knew how to act. That it was my duty to tell the partners what had happened I had no doubt; but how much to tell them, and when, I could not make up my mind. I determined to take Doubleday into my confidence, and get the advantage of his good advice and clear head.

But it was easier said than done. Almost as soon as he came in Doubleday had to go down to the docks, and the opportunity of consulting him was thus delayed. Every moment that passed I felt more and more uneasy. Mr Barnacle had already arrived, and Mr Merrett was due in a few minutes. What right had I to delay even for a moment a matter which affected the credit of the whole house?

Yet suppose, after all, I had found a mare's-nest! Suppose Hawkesbury's explanation of what had occurred should by any chance have been correct—suppose the sounds I heard during my confinement had not been caused by those two at all, but by the housekeeper sweeping out the room and putting it in order? If that was so, what a fool I should make of myself!

No; I resolved, for all the difference it would make, I would wait till I could consult Doubleday.

Hawkesbury was very busy that morning; he was constantly fidgeting in and out of his little box, giving vague directions to one clerk and another, and keeping a special eye on me and all I did.

When Mr Merrett arrived he went as usual to say good-morning to his uncle, and as usual followed him into the partners' room, to receive such letters as might require answering.

I wished Doubleday had not been called down to the docks this morning of all others. He would have told me in a moment what I ought to do, or, which came to the same thing, what he would have done in my place. Anything would be better than this suspense. I was tempted even then to break in upon the partners and tell them what had happened, and what my suspicions were. But I could not do it while Hawkesbury was there. When he came out—

By the way, what an unconscionable lot of letters there must be to keep him in there all this time! He was usually there about five minutes, but this morning he had been half an hour at the very least.

The thought suddenly occurred to me, could he be telling the partners about Jack Smith's antecedents? In the midst of all my uneasiness I almost smiled to think how sold he would be when he discovered they had heard it all already!

Ah! here he was at last.

No. It was Mr Merrett who appeared at the door with an extremely long face; and looking round the office, fixed his eyes on me, and said, "Batchelor—come in here!"

I obeyed.

Instead of going in as usual before me, he waited till I had entered, and then followed me, closing the door behind him.

What on earth does it all mean?

Mr Barnacle sat looking straight before him through his spectacles. Hawkesbury also sat at the table, twisting a quill pen backwards and forwards with his fingers.

"Hawkesbury," said Mr Merrett, as he re-entered, "you might leave us, please. I will call you when you are wanted."

Hawkesbury, without looking at me, rose to obey. As he reached the door, Mr Merrett stepped after him, and whispered something. At ordinary times I should not have heard what he whispered, or thought of listening for it. But there was such a silence in the room, and my nerves were strung up to such a pitch, that I distinctly caught the words.

What I heard was this—

"Fetch a policeman!"



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

HOW HAWKESBURY AND I SPENT A MORNING IN THE PARTNERS' ROOM.

"Fetch a policeman!" The truth flashed across me as I heard the words. Instead of standing here an accuser, I stood the accused. Hawkesbury had been before me with a vengeance!

The very shock of the discovery called back the presence of mind, which, on my first summons, I had almost lost. I was determined at least that nothing I should do or say would lend colour to the false charge against me.

"Batchelor," said Mr Merrett, after Hawkesbury had gone and the door was locked—"Batchelor, we have sent for you here under very painful circumstances. You doubtless know why."

"I must ask you to tell me, sir," I replied, respectfully, but with a tremble in my voice which I would have given anything to conceal.

"I will tell you," said Mr Merrett, "when you have first told Mr Barnacle and me what you have been doing since eight o'clock this morning."

"And let me advise you," said Mr Barnacle, looking up, "to tell the truth."

"I certainly will tell the truth," I began.

What possessed that unlucky voice of mine to quaver in the way it did? Those few words, I was convinced, would tell more against me than the most circumstantial narrative. I clutched hold of the back of a chair near me, and made a desperate effort to steady myself as I proceeded. I gave an exact account of everything that had happened since I entered the office that morning, omitting nothing, glossing over nothing, shirking nothing. They both listened attentively, eyeing me keenly all the time, and betraying no sign in their faces whether they believed me or not.

"Then you mean to say," said Mr Merrett, when it was done, "that you were not in this room at all?"

"Yes, I never entered it."

"Were you ever in this room without our knowledge?"

"Yes, a fortnight ago. Smith and I were here early, and hearing a noise inside, we opened the door and came in to see what it was."

"What did you find?"

"Hawkesbury, working at the table where Mr Barnacle is now sitting."

"What occurred?"

I related precisely what had occurred, repeating as nearly as I could the very words that had been used.

There was a silence, and then Mr Merrett, in his most solemn tones, said, "Now, Batchelor, answer this question. You say you were here before any one else arrived this morning?"

"Yes, sir. I had been here about five minutes before Hawkesbury came."

"What were you doing during that time?"

"I was working at my desk."

"You are quite sure?"

"Perfectly," said I, my cheeks burning and my heart swelling within me to be thus spoken to by those whom, with all my faults, I had never once so much as dreamt of deceiving.

"You did not enter this room?"

"No."

Mr Merrett touched his bell, and Hawkesbury appeared. I scarcely wondered he should try to avoid my eye as he stood at the table waiting.

"Hawkesbury, repeat once more, in Batchelor's hearing, what you have already told us."

He kept his head down and his face averted from me as he said, "I arrived here at a quarter to nine this morning, and noticed the door of this room open, and when I came to see who was there I saw Batchelor in the act of shutting the safe. He did not notice me at first, not until he was coming out of the room. I asked him what he was doing here. He seemed very much disconcerted, and said he had been looking for some papers he had left on Mr Barnacle's table the day before. I asked him what he had been doing with the safe, and where he had got the key to open it. He got into a great state, and begged me to say nothing about it. I said I was bound to tell you what I had seen. Then he flew into a rage, and told me he'd serve me out. I told him that wouldn't prevent me doing what was right. Then he left the office, and didn't come back till a quarter to ten."

All this Hawkesbury repeated glibly and hurriedly in a low voice. To me, who stood by and heard it, it was a cowardly lie from beginning to end. But to my employers, I felt, it must sound both businesslike and straightforward; quite as straightforward, I feared, as my own equally exact but tremblingly-spoken story.

"You hear what Hawkesbury says?" said Mr Merrett, turning to me.

I roused myself with an effort, and answered quietly, "Yes, sir."

"What have you to say to it?"

"That it is false from beginning to end."

"You deny, in fact, ever having been at this safe, or in this room?"

"Most certainly."

They all looked grave, and Mr Merrett said, solemnly, "I am sorry to hear you deny it, Batchelor. If you had made a full confession we should have been disposed to deal more leniently with you."

"I never did it—it's all false!" I cried, suddenly losing all self- control. "You know it's false; it's a plot to ruin me and Jack."

"Silence, sir!" said Mr Merrett, sternly.

"I won't be silent," I shouted; "I never deceived you, and yet you go and believe what this miserable—"

Mr Merrett touched his bell angrily; but before any one answered it Mr Barnacle had looked up.

The junior partner had been silent all this time, an attentive but impassive listener to all that had passed. Once or twice during Hawkesbury's story he had darted a quick glance at the speaker, and once or twice during my indignant protest his brows had knit, as it seemed, in anger. Mr Barnacle had always had the reputation of being the sterner of the two partners, and now, as he abruptly joined in the conversation, I felt as if it boded very little good for me.

"One moment," said he to Mr Merrett; "there are a few more questions we should ask, I think. Batchelor, you are doing yourself no good by this noise," he added, turning to me.

He was right, and I saw it. I quieted down with an effort, and wondered what was coming next.

Wallop appeared at the door in answer to the bell, and was told he was not wanted. Then Mr Barnacle turned to Hawkesbury and asked, "What brought you here so early as a quarter to nine, Hawkesbury?"

This question surprised Hawkesbury as much as it delighted me. I hardly expected to have a cross-examination in my favour conducted by Mr Barnacle.

"I came to do some work," said Hawkesbury.

"What work?"

"I had several things to catch up."

"What? Invoices, or letters, or accounts, or what?"

"I had the petty-cash to balance."

"That is supposed to be done every day, is it not?"

"Yes; but I had got rather behind."

"How many days behind?" said Mr Barnacle.

"Really I can't quite say," said Hawkesbury, who did not seem used to being driven into a corner. "My journey North threw me out of it."

"Then you have not balanced the petty-cash since before you went North, nearly three weeks ago? Am I to understand that?"

"Yes," said Hawkesbury.

"Is this the first morning you have come here early?"

"No. I have been once or twice."

"This is the only time you found Batchelor here?"

"No; about a fortnight ago he was here with Smith. I found them both in this room."

"What were they doing?"

"They were writing something at the table. They were in a great rage with me when I came in."

"Was the safe open at the time?"

Hawkesbury had got past the stage of sticking at trifles.

"Yes," he said; "when I came in it was. But they made a rush and turned me out of the room and locked the door. And then when I came in again it was shut."

"And did you mention this to anybody?"

"No."

"And why, pray?"

Hawkesbury was taken aback by the sudden question. It was evident he could not make his story square at all four corners.

"I—I—hoped I might be mistaken," said he, uncomfortably. "In fact, I meant to mention the affair, but—but I forgot."

"Oh," said Mr Barnacle, in a way that made the witness writhe.

"I hope you don't doubt my word," said Hawkesbury, attempting to assume a lofty air of virtuous indignation.

Mr Barnacle vouchsafed no reply.

"What we desire," said Mr Merrett, "is to come at the truth of the matter, and I can only say that it would be much better if the culprit were to make a full confession here now."

He looked hard at me as he spoke, and I did my best to stand the look as an innocent man should.

"A cheque for eight pounds has been missed," continued Mr Merrett, "which was only drawn yesterday, and left in the safe. I ask you, Batchelor, do you know anything of it?"

"No, sir," I replied.

"Do you?" said Mr Barnacle to Hawkesbury.

Hawkesbury flushed as he replied, "I never expected to be asked such a question, Mr Barnacle. I know nothing about it."

Mr Merrett evidently disliked his partner's persistency in putting to Hawkesbury the same questions as had been put to me, but he could hardly complain. He turned to his nephew and said, "Did you fetch a policeman, Hawkesbury?"

"No; I was just going when you called me in here."

Mr Merrett touched his bell, and Crow appeared.

"Is Doubleday in?" asked the senior partner.

"No, sir."

"As soon as he comes in, tell him he is wanted."

Crow took an eyeful of us as we stood there, evidently dying of curiosity to know what it all meant, and then retired.

"You two had better go to your work for the present," said Mr Barnacle; "but understand that you are neither of you at liberty to leave the office. Merrett, I will go down to the bank."

"Do," said Mr Merrett.

And so this first painful interview ended. My feelings on finding myself once more at my desk among my fellow-clerks may be more easily imagined than described.

My indignation and sense of injury would scarcely allow me to think calmly on my position. That my employers should be ready, on the testimony of such a fellow as Hawkesbury, to believe a charge like this against me, was simply unbearable, and my own helplessness to prove my innocence only added tenfold to my trouble. Oh! if Jack were only here, I might get some light.

I hurriedly dashed off a note to him, telling him all, and begging him to come. Yet what was the use of writing when I was not allowed to leave the office to post the letter?

I only wished Mr Barnacle would come back from the bank, and that I might know the worst.

As for Hawkesbury, he had shut himself up in his glass box, and was invisible.

Presently, not a little to my comfort, Doubleday returned. Fortunately, Crow was in another part of the office at the time, so that before he delivered his message I had time for a hurried consultation.

"Doubleday," said I, in a whisper, "I am accused of stealing a cheque; can you help me out?"

"Guilty, or not guilty?" inquired Doubleday, taking a practical view of the case at once. This was pleasant, but it was no time to be particular.

"It is a lie from beginning to end, invented by Hawkesbury to shield himself from a similar charge."

"Oh, that's it? He's been coming out in that line has he?"

I hurriedly narrated the morning's adventures, greatly to his astonishment and wrath. He took in the situation at once.

"Jolly awkward fix," said he. "Seen the cheque?"

"No; Mr Barnacle is down at the bank now."

"Doubleday," said Crow, entering at this moment, "the governors want you—sharp."

"They are going to send you for a policeman," I said. "If anything happens, Doubleday, will you please telegraph to Smith, at Mrs Shield's, Packworth, and tell him to come to me, and also find out Billy, the shoeblack, and say I want to see him."

Doubleday looked at me with something like amazement as I made this request, which, however, he promised to fulfil, and then waited on Mr Merrett in the partners' room.

However, he returned almost immediately, and said he was to wait until Mr Barnacle came back.

It seemed ages before that event happened. Meanwhile Doubleday advised me not to be seen talking to him, or anybody, but to go to my desk and keep my own counsel. It was good advice, and I took it. Mr Barnacle returned presently, accompanied by a man who I fancied must be connected with the bank. The two partners and this stranger were closeted together for some time in the inner-room, and then Doubleday was summoned.

After what seemed a century he emerged and beckoned to me to go in. "You're wanted," he said.

I could gather neither comfort nor hope from his face as he stood to let me pass.

"Come when I ring," said Mr Merrett to him.

Once more I stood before my employers. The stranger was still in the room, and eyed me as I entered in a manner which made me feel as if, whatever I was, I ought to be the guilty person.

"This matter, Batchelor," began Mr Merrett, solemnly, "is more serious than we imagined. Not only has a cheque been stolen, but it has been tampered with. Look here!"

So saying he held out the cheque. It was dated the previous day, and payable to bearer. But the amount, instead of being eight pounds, was eighty. The alteration had been neatly made, and no one who did not know the original amount drawn for would have suspected that L80 was not the proper sum.

"This cheque," said Mr Merrett, "was presented at the bank this morning at ten o'clock and cashed."

I made no reply, being determined to say as little as I could.

"You were here at this hour, I believe," continued Mr Merrett, "but you had left the office between 9 and 9:45."

"No, sir. I have not left the office since I arrived at half-past eight."

Mr Merrett touched the bell.

"Send Hawkesbury here," he said to Doubleday.

Hawkesbury appeared, and at Mr Merrett's bidding, after being shown the cheque, repeated once more his story in the hearing of the stranger.

It did not vary from the former version, and included the statement that I had quitted the office at the time alleged.

"Did you leave the office at all?" inquired Mr Barnacle.

"No," said Hawkesbury.

"Not at all?"

"No, I said so," replied he.

"And no one came to see you here?"

"No."

"Your friend Masham did not?"

Hawkesbury, much offended to be thus catechised, made no reply.

Mr Barnacle coolly repeated the question.

"No—he did not!"

"What were you doing all the time?"

"I was working."

"Yes, what particular work were you engaged in?"

"I told you—I was balancing the petty-cash."

"Did you finish it?"

"Nearly."

Mr Barnacle touched the bell, and Doubleday appeared.

"Doubleday, go to Hawkesbury's desk and bring me the petty-cash book and box."

Hawkesbury turned pale and broke out into a rage.

"What is this for, Mr Barnacle? I am not going to stand it! What right have you to suspect me?"

"Give Doubleday the key," repeated Mr Barnacle.

"No," exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a white heat. "I will not, I will fetch the book myself. He doesn't know where to find it. He has no business to go to my desk."

"Remain where you are, Hawkesbury," said Mr Barnacle.

"What right have you to search my desk? I have private things in it. Uncle Merrett, are you going to allow this?"

"Mr Barnacle has a perfect right to see the petty-cash account," said Mr Merrett, looking, however, by no means pleased.

"Why don't you examine his desk?" said Hawkesbury, pointing to me; "he is the one to suspect, not me. Why don't you search his desk?"

"I have no objection to my desk being searched," said I, feeling a good deal concerned, however, at the thought of the mess that receptacle was in.

"It is only fair," said Mr Barnacle. "This gentleman will search both, I dare say. Doubleday, show this gentleman both desks."

It was a long, uncomfortable interval which ensued, Hawkesbury breaking out in periodical protests against his desk being examined, and I wondering where and how to look for help. The partners meanwhile stood and talked together in a whisper at the window.

At length the gentleman, who, it had dawned on me, was not a bank official, but a detective, returned with Doubleday, who carried in his hands a few books and papers.

The petty-cash book and box were first delivered over, and without examination consigned to the safe.

"These letters were in the same desk," said the detective, laying down the papers on the table. They appeared to be letters, and in the address of the top one I instantly recognised the handwriting of the letter sent to Mary Smith, which I still had in my pocket.

Hawkesbury made an angry grasp at the papers. "They are private letters," he exclaimed, "give them up! What right have you to touch them?"

"Hawkesbury," said Mr Barnacle, "in a case like this it is better for you to submit quietly to what has been done. Nothing in these papers that does not concern the matter in hand is likely to tell against you. Is that all, officer?"

"That's all in that desk," said the detective. "In the other young gentleman's desk the only thing besides business papers and litter was this key."

A key? What key could it be? It was the first I had seen of it!

"Let me look at it," said Mr Merrett, suddenly, as the detective laid it on the table.

It was handed to him, and his face changed as he took it. He turned for a moment to show it to Mr Barnacle and whisper something. Then he said, "This is my key of the safe, which I left last night in the pocket of my office coat in this room!"



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

HOW I ENDED THE DAY MORE COMFORTABLY THAN I HAD EXPECTED.

My misfortunes had now fairly reached a climax, and it seemed useless to struggle against circumstances any more.

Of course, I could see, as soon as my stunned senses recovered sufficiently to enable me to perceive anything, that the same false hand which had pointed me out as a thief had also placed that key in my desk as part of his wicked plot. I remembered that when I was conveyed up to the sample-room that morning my desk had been open. Nothing, therefore, could have been more simple than to secrete the key there during my absence, and so lay up against me a silent accuser which it would be far harder to gainsay than a talking one.

But what was the use of explaining all this when evidently fortune had decreed that I should become a victim? After all, was it not better to give in at once, and let fate do its worst?

"This is my key of the safe," said Mr Merrett, and all eyes turned on me.

Nothing I could say, it was clear, could do any good. I therefore gaped stupidly at the key and said nothing.

"How came it in your desk, Batchelor?" asked Mr Barnacle.

I didn't know, and therefore I couldn't say, and consequently said nothing.

"Have you any explanation to offer?" repeated Mr Barnacle.

"No," I replied.

"Then, officer," said Mr Merrett, "we must give him in charge."

The bare idea of being walked off to a police-station was enough to drive all my sullenness and reserve to the four winds.

Suddenly finding my tongue, I cried—

"Oh, please don't, please don't! I can explain it all. For mercy sake don't be cruel—don't send me to prison! I am innocent, Mr Merrett, Mr Barnacle; I can explain it all. Please don't have me locked up."

In my confusion and panic I turned round and addressed these last words to Hawkesbury, who received them with a smile in which there was more of triumph than pity.

"You false coward!" I exclaimed, suddenly seeing who it was, "you did this. You put the key in my desk while I was locked up stairs."

"Really, Batchelor," replied he, in his sweetest tones, "I'm afraid you hardly know what you're saying. I don't understand you."

"You do," said I, "and you understand how helpless I am to defend myself. You and Masham did your work well this morning."

"At any rate," retorted he, firing up, "we gave you a lesson for your impudence."

Mr Merrett had been speaking with the detective, and did not hear this dialogue; but Mr Barnacle did, happily for me.

"Then," he said, turning short round to Hawkesbury, "Masham was here this morning?"

Hawkesbury, thus suddenly cornered, turned first red, then white, and tried to mumble out some evasion. But Mr Barnacle was not the man to be put off in that way.

"Then he was here this morning?" he demanded again.

Hawkesbury had no retreat, and he saw it.

"He just called in for a moment," he said, sullenly; "that's all."

"Oh," said Mr Barnacle, "you can go to your desk, Hawkesbury, for the present."

Hawkesbury, looking anything but triumphant, obeyed, and Mr Barnacle, who evidently suspected the real truth more than his partner did, turned to me.

"Batchelor, do you still decline to offer any explanation of the discovery of this key in your desk?"

"I can only say," I replied, "that it must have been put there, for I never touched it."

"Who would put it there?"

"Hawkesbury, I suppose. When he and his friend dragged me up stairs my desk was left open."

"Can you describe this Masham?"

I could, and did.

"The description," said the detective, "tallies exactly with that given at the bank of the person who presented the cheque."

"Do you know his writing?"

"I know what I believe to be his writing," said I.

"Is that it?" inquired Mr Barnacle, showing me an envelope addressed to Hawkesbury.

"No, that is not the handwriting I believe to be his."

"Is that?" showing another.

"No."

"Is that?" This time it was the envelope I had already recognised.

"Yes, that is it."

"How are you able to recognise it?"

"By this," said I, producing the letter to Mary Smith from my pocket. The handwriting on the two envelopes was compared and found to be alike, and further to correspond with a signature at the back of the cheque. The clerk, it seemed, being a little doubtful of the person who presented the cheque, had required him to write his name on the back; and the fictitious signature "A. Robinson" was accordingly given in Masham's hand.

"That seems clear," said the detective.

"I see," said Mr Barnacle, looking again at the envelope I had given him, "this letter is addressed to the place where Smith lives. Is Masham a friend of Smith or his family?"

"Would you mind reading the letter, sir?" I said; "that will answer the question better than I can."

Mr Barnacle did so, and Mr Merrett also.

In the midst of my trouble it was at least a satisfaction to see the look of disgust which came into both their faces as they perused its contents.

"A dastardly letter!" said Mr Merrett. "How came Masham to know of Smith's private affairs?"

"Hawkesbury overheard Smith and me talking of them on the first occasion that we found him here, and must have told Masham, who had a grudge against Smith."

"You heard, of course, that Hawkesbury included Smith as well as yourself in his accusation?"

"Yes, I did. And I wish he was here to confirm my denial of it. What happened was—"

"Yes," said Mr Barnacle, "you need not go into that again. But answer one more question, Batchelor. Are you acquainted with Masham?"

"Slightly. I once was introduced to him by Hawkesbury and spent a day with him."

"Have you any reason to believe he is a swindler?"

"I know of nothing which would warrant me in saying so," replied I.

"Do you know whether Hawkesbury owes him money?"

"Yes—at least I have been told so."

"By whom?"

"By a boy—a shoeblack who—"

"A shoeblack!" exclaimed Mr Merrett. "Is that your only authority?"

"I believe he is honest," I said; "he overheard a conversation between Masham and a friend, in which Masham mentioned that Hawkesbury owed him L15."

"Really," said Mr Merrett, "this is almost absurd to take such testimony as that."

"It wouldn't be amiss to see the boy, though," said Mr Barnacle; "a great deal depends on whether or no Hawkesbury owed money to Masham. Where is this boy to be found?"

"Oh, I could fetch him at once. I know where he works," I said.

"No," said Mr Barnacle, "you must stay here. Doubleday can go." And he touched the bell.

"Doubleday," he said, when that youth entered, "we want you to bring here a shoeblack."

"Yes, sir," said Doubleday, artlessly: "will any one do?"

"No, no," said Mr Barnacle, "the boy we wish to see is—where is he, Batchelor?"

"He works at the top of Style Street," I said; "you will know the place by the writing all over the flagstones on either side."

With this lucid direction Doubleday started, and I in the meanwhile was left to go on with my usual work. Most of the fellows were away at dinner, and Hawkesbury as before was invisible, so I had the place pretty much to myself, and was spared, for a time, at any rate, a good deal of unwelcome questioning.

In due time there was a sound of scuffling and protest on the stairs outside, and Doubleday reappeared dragging in Billy. That youthful hero, evidently doubting the import of this strange summons, was in a highly indignant frame of mind at being thus hauled along by the mischievous Doubleday, who, vouchsafing no explanation and heeding no protest, had simply made a grab at his unlucky young victim, and then led him away, box, brushes, and all, to Hawk Street.

"Do you hear? turn it up—do you hear?" he cried, as they entered. "Oh, go on, you let my arm be—let me go, do you hear?"

At this point he recognised me, who thought it well to interpose.

"Don't alarm yourself, Billy," said I, "no one's going to hurt you."

"This cove do—and he are!"

"Well, he didn't mean. The gentlemen here want to ask you some questions, that's all."

"I ain't a-goin' to be arsted no questions. They ain't my governors, so I let them know. I ain't a-goin' to be arsted questions by any one 'sep my governor."

"But what they want to ask you, Billy," said I, "has something to do with Mr Smith's happiness and mine. All you have to do is to tell the truth."

This explanation mollified the ruffled Billy somewhat.

"Come, young cock-sparrow," said Doubleday, returning from announcing the distinguished visitor, "you're wanted inside. They want you, too, Batch."

We entered. Billy, as usual, was more at his ease than any one else. "What cheer? Well, what do you want to arst me?" he cried, jauntily.

The partners, thus encouraged, looked rather amused, and Mr Barnacle said, "You're the little shoeblack, are you?"

"In corse I are!"

"And you know this gentleman?"

"Yaas; I knows the animal!"

"And you know Mr Smith?"

"What! my governor? He ain't no concern of yourn," retorted the boy, firing up a little at this liberty taken with his "governor's" name.

Mr Barnacle gazed curiously at the strange urchin through his spectacles, and then resumed, in as coaxing a tone as he could assume, "You know a person called Masham, do you?"

"Yaas; I knows 'im."

"What sort of person is he?"

"What sort? Why, he are a beauty, so I tell you!"

"Yes; but I mean, what sort of looking man? Is he tall or short? Has he dark hair or light? Would you know him if you saw him?"

"Know him? Oh no—no fear—I know the beauty!"

"Well, what sort of looking man is he?" asked Mr Barnacle.

"He's a ugly bloke with a mug like yourn, and a 'orseshoe pin in 'is weskit."

"Yes? And what colour is his hair?"

"Carrots!"

That was quite enough. This unromantic portrait corresponded sufficiently nearly with the description already given.

"Now," said Mr Barnacle, "will you tell us when you last blacked his boots?"

"A Toosdy."

"Do you remember whether he was alone?"

"Ain't you arstin' me questions, though!" exclaimed Billy. "Of course he 'ad a bloke along of him, and, says he, 'That there parson's son,' says he, 'is a cuttin' it fat?' says he. 'He do owe me a fifteen pun,' says 'e, 'and ef 'e don't hand it over sharp,' says he, 'I'll wake 'im up!' And then—"

"Yes," said Mr Barnacle; "that's enough, my man, thank you."

When Billy had gone, Mr Merrett turned to me and said, "Go to your work, Batchelor, and tell Doubleday to send Hawkesbury here."

I obeyed, feeling that, after all, as far as I was concerned, the storm had blown over.

Doubleday went to Hawkesbury's glass box and opened the door. "You're wanted, Hawkes— Hullo!"

This exclamation was caused by the discovery that Hawkesbury was not there!

"Where's Hawkesbury?" he inquired of the office generally.

"He's not come back," said Crow.

"When did he go out?"

"Why, the usual time, to be sure."

Doubleday gave a low whistle, and exclaimed, "Bolted!" And so it was. That afternoon Hawkesbury did not appear again at Hawk Street, or the next day, or the next week, or the next month. And when inquiry was made at the rectory, all that could be ascertained was that he had left home, and that not even his father knew where he had gone.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

WHICH PARTS ME FROM THE READER, BUT NOT FROM MY FRIEND SMITH.

And now, reader, my story is all but done. One short scene more, and then my friend Smith and I must retire out of sight.

It was on a Christmas day, three years after the event last narrated, that a little party assembled in a tiny house in Hackney to spend a very quiet evening.

It was, I daresay, as modest a party in as modest a house as could have been found that Christmas-time in all London.

The house had hardly yet lost the smell of paint and varnish which had greeted its occupants when they first moved into it a week ago. To-day, however, that savour is seriously interfered with by another which proceeds from the little kitchen behind, and which dispenses a wonderfully homelike influence through the small establishment. In fact, the dinner now in course of preparation will be the first regular meal which that household has celebrated, and the occasion being more or less of a state one, the two ladies of the house are in a considerable state of flutter over the preparations.

While they are absorbed in the mysterious orgies of the kitchen, the four gentlemen are sitting round the cheery little parlour fire with their feet on the fender, talking about a great many things.

One of the gentlemen is middle-aged, with hair turning white, and a face which looks as if it had seen stormy weather in its journey through life. He is the quietest of the party, the talk being chiefly sustained by two younger men of about twenty-one years, considerably assisted by a boy who appears to be very much at home on every subject, especially boots and mothers. Indeed, this boy (who might be ten, or might be fifteen, there is nothing in his figure or face or voice to say which), is the liveliest member of the party, and keeps the others, even occasionally the older gentleman, amused.

In due time the ladies appear, as trim and unconcerned as if they had never put their foot in a kitchen all their lives, and the circle round the fire widens to admit them. The elder of these ladies is a careworn but pleasant, motherly-looking body, who calls the elder gentleman "sir" when she speaks to him, and invariably addresses one of the two young men—the one with the black eyes—as Mister Johnny. As for the younger lady, whose likeness to Mister Johnny is very apparent, she is all sunshine and smiles, and one wonders how the little parlour was lighted at all before she entered it.

At least the other young man—he without the black eyes—wonders thus as he looks towards where she sits with the elder gentleman's hand in her own, and her smiles putting even the hearth to shame.

"So, Billy," says she, addressing the boy, "you've been made office-boy at Hawk Street, I hear?"

"I are so—leastways I ham so," replies Billy, who appears to be in some difficulty just now with his mother tongue.

"You mustn't stand on your head in the office, you know," says the young lady, with a mischievous smile, "or the junior partner would be horrified."

The young lady's brother smiles, as if this observation referred to him, and the elderly lady looks particularly proud, for some reason or other.

"That there bloke—" begins the boy.

"Order, sir," exclaims the young lady; "haven't I told you, Billy, that 'bloke' is not a nice word? It's all very well for a shoeblack, but it won't do for an office-boy."

"You do jaw me—" again began the boy.

"I what you?"

"Jaw—leastways you tork, you do," said Billy, who appeared to be as much in awe of the young lady as he was hopeless of attaining the classical English.

"I say, Mary," laughed the brother, "you might give Billy a holiday to- day, as it's Christmas Day. You can't expect him to master the Queen's English all at once."

So Billy is allowed to express himself for the rest of the evening in the way most natural to him, and shows his gratitude by making ample use of his liberty.

Presently the elder lady disappears, and returns in a minute or two with the information that dinner is ready, an announcement which Billy greets with the laconic ejaculation, "Proper!"

It is a cheery Christmas dinner that. The elderly gentleman is rather quiet, and so is the young gentleman called Fred, who looks a great deal oftener at the young lady than he does at the plate before him. But the others make up in fun and chatter for the silence of these two, and as the meal goes on the good spirits of the party rise all round.

"This is rather better than Drury Lane, eh, Jack?" says Fred.

"Rather," says Jack. "The only fear is about its being too far away for father."

"Not at all," says the elder gentleman. "I'm better already for the walk every day. You've no idea how agreeable the streets are at three o'clock every morning."

"Do you remember our first walk out this way, Fred," says Jack, "when we tried to find out Flanagan?"

"Yes, I do, indeed. We missed him, but we found Billy instead."

"Yaas, and you was a nice pair of flats, you was, when I fust comed across you," observes Billy, who, I regret to say, has not quite finished his mouthful of plum-pudding before he speaks.

"They're pulling down the court, I see, Billy," says Fred.

"They are so. 'Tain't no concern of mine, though, now she's hooked it."

Billy says this with a grave face, and means no irreverence in thus speaking of his dead mother.

"Mr Hawkesbury will be almost sorry to see it pulled down," says Jack, "for he had done so much good there."

"Poor Mr Hawkesbury!" says Mary. "I wish he would have come to us to- day. But he says he would be happier at his regular work, and we hadn't the heart to urge him."

"He's good deal happier now, though," says Fred, "since he heard from his son. In fact, he's had one or two letters, and Hawkesbury really seems to be turning over a new leaf; so the father is quite hopeful."

There is a pause, and then Jack changes the subject.

"Talking of pulling down places," says he, "I saw an advertisement to- day, Fred, of the sale of that valuable and desirable place, Stonebridge House."

"Did you?" says Fred.

And then follows a talk about old school days in which more present are interested than the two who actually take part.

"It seems a long while since we were there," says Jack.

"It's seven years six months and a week to-day since I left," says Fred.

"Why, how exact you are in your dates!" smiles the young lady.

"It was on the eighteenth of June," replies Fred. "I recollect it because it was on the twenty-first that I first met you."

He had not meant to say this, and blushes when it escapes him, and for the next minute or two he occupies himself with his plate. So does the young lady with hers.

Then the talk drifts off to other subjects, and the party fall to sketching out the programme of their new life in London. Jack is to be home to tea every evening at seven, and as Jack's father has not to leave for his newspaper office till eight, the little family will at any rate get one hour a day together. And as soon as the spring comes Miss Mary is going to convert the little strip of garden behind into a second paradise, and Mr Fred, if he pleases, may come and help her. Indeed, it is taken for granted that, although his lodging is away in a street hard by, he is to be considered as free of this house and one of the family; as also is Billy, provided he does not call Jack "bloke," and attends diligently to the instructions Miss Mary promises to give him two evenings a week.

In due time dinner is ended, and the little party once more congregate round the parlour fire. Scarcely have they assembled when there is a ring at the door, and next moment a cheery gentleman called Doubleday is announced. Every one welcomes the visitor warmly, and room is made for him in the magic circle.

"Thought I'd call and pay my respects," says Mr Doubleday, bobbing to the ladies. "Jolly snug little box you've got here, too."

"Yes, it is snug," says Jack.

"Glad to see you settled down before I go," says the other. "Settled down both here and at Hawk Street too, eh?"

"I'm awfully sorry you're going abroad," says Jack, "we shall miss you badly."

"Oh, I'll soon be back. You see, it's rather a good offer, this Bombay agency, and I'm bound to have to hop over to the old country every now and then to look you up."

"The oftener the better," says every one.

Mr Doubleday fidgets a bit in his chair, and then remarks, "I say, Smith, excuse my saying it, but I'm very glad you ever came to Hawk Street, and I may as well tell you so."

Jack is about to say something, but Doubleday is before him.

"I know what you're going to say, but it's a fact. Batch here thinks so too."

Mr Fred assents warmly.

"Fact is," says Doubleday, "I don't know how you did the trick, but you've drawn more than one of us out of Queer Street."

"What do you—" begins Jack, but Doubleday continues, "Of course you'll deny it, but no one believes you; do they, Batch? Why, even Crow was saying yesterday—"

"That's Flanikin," exclaimed Billy at this point, as another ring sounded at the door.

This interruption, though it cuts short Mr Doubleday's speech, is a decidedly pleasant one; and when a burly, rosy-faced Irish gentleman enters and joins the party the magic circle seems finally complete.

I need not recount all the talk of that happy Christmas evening. It was a merry Christmas, without doubt, though not a boisterous one. No one seemed to want any better enjoyment than chatting over old times, or sitting and listening while others chatted; and when Mary's sweet voice rang out presently in the words of some of the grand old Christmas hymns, the joy that lit up more than one face in the happy group spoke more eloquently than words of the true happiness which this season of peace and goodwill brought to their hearts.

THE END