We left the beach, and our ways diverged.
We exchanged Good night, and had parted
indeed, when he said, returning:

"Mr. Sampson, may I ask? Poor Meltham,
whom we spoke of.—Dead yet?"

"Not when I last heard of him; but too
broken a man to live long, and hopelessly lost to
his old calling."

"Dear, dear, dear!" said he, with great feeling.
"Sad, sad, sad! The world is a grave!"
And so went his way.

It was not his fault if the world were not a
grave; but, I did not call that observation after
him, any more than I had mentioned those other
things just now enumerated. He went his way,
and I went mine with all expedition. This
happened, as I have said, either at. the end of
September or beginning of October. The next
time I saw him, and the last time, was late in
November.

v.

I HAD a very particular engagement, to breakfast
in the Temple. It, was a bitter north-
easterly morning, and the sleet and slush lay
inches deep in the streets. I could get no
conveyance, and was soon wet to the knees;
but I should have been true to that appointment
though I had had to wade to it, up to my
neck in the same impediments.

The appointment took me to some chambers
in the Temple. They were at the top of a
lonely corner house overlooking the river. The
name MR. ALFRED BECKWITH was painted on
the outer door. On the door opposite, on the
same landing, the name MR. JULIUS SLINKTON.
The doors of both sets of chambers stood
open, so that anything said aloud in one set,
could be heard in the other.

I had never been in those chambers before.
They were dismal, close, unwholesome, and
oppressive; the furniture, originally good, and not
yet old, was faded and dirty; the rooms were
in great disorder; there was a strong pervading
smell of opium, brandy, and tobacco; the grate
and fire-irons were splashed all over, with
unsightly blotches of rust; and on a sofa by the
fire, in the room where breakfast had been
prepared, lay the host, Mr. Beckwith: a man with
all the appearances upon him of the worst kind
of drunkard, very far advanced upon his shameful
way to death.

"Slinkton is not come yet," said this creature,
staggering up when I went in; "I'll call him.
Halloa! Julius Cæsar! Come and drink!" As
he hoarsely roared this out, he beat the poker
and tongs together in a mad way, as if that
were his usual manner of summoning his
associate.

The voice of Mr. Slinkton was heard through
the clatter, from the opposite side of the staircase,
and he carne in. He had not expected
the pleasure of meeting me. I have seen several
artful men brought to a stand, but I never saw
a man so aghast as he was when his eyes rested
on mine.

"Julius Cæsar," cried Beckwith, staggering
between us, "Mist' Sampson! Mist' Sampson,
Julius Cæsar! Julius, Mist' Sampson, is the
friend of my soul. Julius keeps me plied with
liquor, morning, noon, and night. Julius is a
real benefactor. Julius threw the tea and
coffee out of window when I used to have any.
Julius empties all the water jugs of their
contents, and fills 'em with spirits. Julius winds
me up and keeps me going. Boil the brandy,
Julius!"

There was a rusty and furred saucepan in
the ashes—the ashes looked like the accumulation
of weeks—and Beckwith, rolling and
staggering between us as if he were going to plunge
headlong into the fire, got the saucepan out, and
tried to force it into Slinkton's hand.

"Boil the brandy, Julius Cæsar! Come! Do
your usual office. Boil the brandy!"

He became so fierce in his gesticulations with
the saucepan, that I expected to see him lay open
Slinkton's head with it. I therefore put out my
hand to check him. He reeled back to the sofa,
and sat there, panting, shaking, and red-eyed, in
his rags of dressing-gown, looking at us both.
I noticed then, that there was nothing to drink
on the table but brandy, and nothing to eat but
salted herrings, and a hot, sickly, highly-peppered
stew.

"At all events, Mr. Sampson," said Slinkton,
offering me the smooth gravel path for the last
time, "I thank you for interfering between me
and this unfortunate man's violence. However
you came here, Mr. Sampson, or with whatever
motive you came here, at least I thank you for
that."

"Boil the brandy!" muttered Beckwith.

Without gratifying his desire to know how I
came there, I said, quietly, "How is your niece,
Mr. Slinkton?"

He looked hard at me, and I looked hard at
him.

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Sampson, that my
niece has proved treacherous and ungrateful to
her best friend. She left me, without a word of
notice or explanation. She was misled, no doubt,
by some designing rascal. Perhaps you may
have heard of it?"

"I did hear that she was misled by a designing
rascal. In fact, I have proof of it."

"Are you sure of it?" said he.

"Quite."

"Boil the brandy!" muttered Beckwith.
"Company to breakfast, Julius Cæsar! Do your
usual office—provide the usual breakfast, dinner,
tea, and supper—boil the brandy!"

The eyes of Slinkton looked from him to me,
and he said, after a moment's consideration:

"Mr. Sampson, you are a man of the world,
and so am I. I will be plain with you."

"Oh, no, you won't," said I, shaking my
head.

"I tell you, sir, I will be plain with you."

"And I tell you, you will not," said I. "I
know all about you. You plain with any one?
Nonsense, nonsense!"

"I plainly tell you, Mr. Sampson," he went
on, with a manner almost composed, " that I
understand your object. You want to save your