it away, but the rest are still unredeemed pledges
of affection."

"Exactly," said Tom; "and that was owing
to the doctor. He laughed at us. He made
us ashamed of ourselves. He made me ashamed
of myself. But I had paid for my cup, and
brought it away, and the thing was done. If I
had not done it when I did, I should never have
done it. What were we ashamed of?"

"Silliness," I said.

"No, kindliness and good feeling, which we
can't have too much of in this short journey."

I did not answer. Tom went on.

"This doctor has upset us all. He has
changed our nature. He has turned the milk
of human kindness that was in us, sour. He
is a very fascinating person, I grant; but who
is he? None of us know. He came among us
mysteriously; we accepted him without question.
Yet we don't know anything about him.
We don't know what he is; what he does;
where he lives; or even what country he
belongs to."

"Well?"

"Well, I sometimes think he is the devil.
He is very pleasant, but he is diabolical in all
his views and opinions, nevertheless. If he
is not the devil, he has, at any rate, played the
devil with us. I feel it at quiet moments like
these, when we are not excited and bandying
flippant jokes and unbelieving sarcasms."

I smoked for a few moments in silence, and
I then said:

"I feel it, too, exactly as you do, Tom. I
have wished to say so often, only—only I didn't
like."

"Ned that is exactly what I have felt.
Suppose we take courage now."

"Suppose we do," I said.

"Very well, then," said Tom. " Let us find
out who this Doctor Goliath is, what he is, and
all about him."

Tom had scarcely said the words when the
doctor came in. He had a small bag in his hand,
and a parcel under his arm.

I am not going to stay this evening," he
said. "I have work to do—work that the world
will hear of. Ha?" And he contracted his brows
darkly, and laid his finger on his nose in a
portentous manner.

"Good night," he said; " if I survive, well
and good; if not, remember me—but as to
that, I don't imagine for a moment that you
will do anything of the sort. You will say
' poor wretch,' and then go on with your jokes
and your sport. 'Tis the way of this vile world,
which has been a huge mistake from the
beginning. Farewell."

"Ned," said Tom, "let us follow him."

We did so. We followed him into the
Strand and on to the bridge, where he had an
altercation with the toll-keeper. We could
hear the words " swindle," " imposition,"
"highway robbery;" and we saw the doctor's
face under the lamp glaring savagely at the man.
At length he flung down his halfpenny, and
walked hurriedly on, but stopped abruptly at
the first recess, turned into it, and looked over
the parapet at the river. We had long
seriously entertained the suspicion—among many
others of a like kind—that the doctor knew
something about the mysterious, and as yet
undiscovered, murder, which is associated with
that spot. He had hinted at it himself often.

"Look!" said Tom. " Fascination draws him
to the scene of his crime.—I almost wish he
would throw himself over."

But the doctor did no such thing. After
looking down at the river for a few moments,
he leaped off the stone ledge, and passed on. We
followed at a safe distance, and kept him in
sight through a great many narrow and gloomy
streets, where our only guide was the dark figure
moving like a shadow before us. At length the
doctor turned up a narrow passage, and
disappeared. We ran forward to the entrance, but
the passage was completely dark, and we could
see nothing. We hesitated for a moment, but
immediately summoned up courage and
followed, groping our way in the dark with the
assistance of the wall. On coming out at the
other end of this dark tunnel, we found
ourselves in a triangular court lighted by a single
gas-lamp placed at the apex of the triangle.
There seemed to be no entrance to it save
by the narrow passage through which we had
passed. All these strange and mysterious
characteristics of the place we were enabled to
see at a glance, by the aid of the one gas-lamp
that stood like a mark of admiration in the
corner. And that glance took in the cloudy
figure of the doctor standing at a door in
the darkest nook of the court, knocking. He
was admitted before we reached the spot, but
we had marked the house. It was number
thirteen.

"An ogglesome number," said Tom. And
there was an ogglesome plaster head over the
doorway—a head, with a leer upon its face, and a
reckoning-tip expression, just like the doctor's.
It seemed to be laughing at the fool's errand
we had come upon.

I said, "What are we to do now?"

"Well, really, I don't know," said Tom.

"Stop," I cried; " I see a bill in the window.
What does it say?"

Tom suggested, " Mangling done," as being
most appropriate to a house inhabited by Doctor
Goliath.

But it was not mangling. It was " Lodgings
to Let for a Single Gentleman."

"Let us knock," I said, " and inquire about
the lodgings, and ascertain what sort of a place
it is."

We saw a light pass into the first floor. That
was evidently the doctor's room, and he had
gone up-stairs. We waited a little, and then
knocked. The door was opened by an elderly
lady of exceedingly benignant aspect, who wore
the remnants of a smile upon her face. The
smile was evidently not intended for us, but we
took it as if it were, and reciprocated with a
smiling inquiry about the lodgings. Would
we step in and look at them? They were two