left in his heart that is always fighting with his
hard head, did not smile at all, but looked
as grim as if squeezing a lemon into his
Saturday night's punch. He answered slowly,
"A cadger—yes; a beggar—a miserable wretch,
he is now; but let me tell you, Master David,
that that miserable bundle of rags was born
and bred a gentleman; the son of a nobleman,
the husband of an heiress, and has sat
and dined at tables where you and I, Master
David, are only allowed to view the plate by
favour of the butler. I have lent him
thousands, and been well paid. The last thing I
had from him was his court suit; and I hold
now his bill for one hundred pounds that will
be paid, I expect, when he dies."

"Why, what nonsense you are talking! you
must be dreaming this morning. However,
we are alone, I'll light a weed, in defiance of
Railway law, you shall spin that yarn; for,
true or untrue, it will fill up the time to
Liverpool."

"As for yarn," replied Balance, "the whole
story is short enough; and as for truth, that
you may easily find out if you like to take
the trouble. I thought the poor wretch was
dead, and I own it put me out meeting him
this morning, for I had a curious dream last
night."

"Oh, hang your dreams! Tell us about
this gentleman beggar that bleeds you of half-
crowns—that melts the heart even of a pawn-
broker!"

"Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate
son of the late Marquis of Hoopborough by a
Spanish lady of rank. He received a first-
rate education, and was brought up in his
father's house. At a very early age he
obtained an appointment in a public office, was
presented by the marquis at court, and
received into the first society, where his handsome
person and agreeable manners made him
a great favourite. Soon after coming of age,
he married the daughter of Sir E. Bumper,
who brought him a very handsome fortune,
which was strictly settled on herself. They
lived in splendid style, kept several carriages,
a house in town, and a place in the country.
For some reason or other, idleness, or to
please his lady's pride he said, he resigned his
appointment. His father died, and left him
nothing; indeed, he seemed at that time very
handsomely provided for.

"Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-
Roy began to disagree. She was cold, correct
—he was hot and random. He was quite
dependant on her, and she made him feel it.
When he began to get into debt, he came
to me. At length some shocking quarrel
occurred; some case of jealousy on the wife's
side, not without reason, I believe; and the
end of it was Mr. Fitz-Roy was turned out of
doors. The house was his wife's, the furniture
was his wife's, and the fortune was his wife's
—he was in fact, her pensioner. He left with
a few hundred pounds ready money, and some
personal jewellery, and went to an hotel. On
these and credit he lived. Being illegitimate,
he had no relations; being a fool, when he
spent his money he lost his friends. The world
took his wife's part, when they found she had
the fortune, and the only parties who
interfered were her relatives, who did their best
to make the quarrel incurable. To crown
all, one night he was run over by a cab, was
carried to a hospital, and lay there for months,
and was during several weeks of the time
unconscious. A message to the wife, by the
hands of one of his debauched companions,
sent by a humane surgeon, obtained an
intimation that 'if he died, Mr. Croak, the
undertaker to the family, had orders to see to
the funeral,' and that Mrs. Molinos was on
the point of starting for the Continent, not to
return for some years. When Fitz-Roy was
discharged, he came to me limping on two
sticks, to pawn his court suit, and told me
his story. I was really sorry for the fellow,
such a handsome, thoroughbred-looking man.
He was going then into the west
somewhere, to try to hunt out a friend. 'What to
do, Balance,' he said, 'I don't know. I can't
dig, and unless somebody will make me their
gamekeeper, I must starve, or beg, as my
Jezebel bade me when we parted!'

"I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and
when I next came upon him it was in the
Rookery of Westminster, in a low lodging-
house, where I was searching with an officer
for stolen goods. He was pointed out to me
as the 'gentleman cadger,' because he was
so free with his money when 'in luck.' He
recognised me, but turned away then. I have
since seen him, and relieved him more than
once, although he never asks for anything.
How he lives, Heaven knows. Without money,
without friends, without useful education of
any kind, he tramps the country, as you saw
him, perhaps doing a little hop-picking or
hay-making, in season, only happy when he
obtains the means to get drunk. I have heard
through the kitchen whispers that you know
come to me, that he is entitled to some
property; and I expect if he were to die his wife
would pay the hundred pound bill I hold; at
any rate, what I have told you I know to be
true, and the bundle of rags I relieved just
now is known in every thieves' lodging in
England as the 'gentleman cadger.'"

This story produced an impression on me,
—I am fond of speculation, and like the excitement
of a legal hunt as much as some do a
fox-chase. A gentleman a beggar, a wife
rolling in wealth, rumours of unknown
property due to the husband: it seemed as if
there were pickings for me amidst this carrion
of pauperism.

Before returning from Liverpool, I had
purchased the gentleman beggar's acceptance
from Balance. I then inserted in the "Times"
the following advertisement: "Horatio
Molinos Fitz-Roy.—If this gentleman will apply
to David Discount, Esq., Solicitor, St. James's,
he will hear of something to his advantage.