east
put forward the plea of forgetfulness. To my surprise, however, he did
neither.

"I remember the incident perfectly," he answered, with the utmost
composure. "At the same time, I assure you, you wrong me when you
declare I laughed--on my word, you do! Let us suppose, however, that I
_did_ do so; and where is the harm? The man desired death; his own
action confessed it, otherwise how came he there? It was proved at the
inquest that he had repeatedly declared himself weary of life. He was
starving; he was without hope. Had he lived over that night, death,
under any circumstances, would only have been a matter of a few days
with him. Would you therefore have had me, knowing all this, prolong
such an existence? In the name of that humanity to which you referred
just now, I ask you the question. You say I laughed. Would you have had
me weep?"

"A specious argument," I replied; "but I own to you frankly I consider
the incident a detestable one."

"There I will meet you most willingly," he continued. "From your point
of view it certainly _was_. From mine--well, as I said just now, I
confess I view it differently. However, I give you my assurance, your
pity is undeserved. The man was a contemptible scoundrel in every way.
He came of respectable stock, was reared under the happiest auspices.
Had he chosen he might have risen to anything in his own rank of life;
but he would not choose. At fifteen he robbed his father's till to
indulge in debauchery, and had broken his parents' hearts before he was
five-and-twenty. He married a girl as good as he was bad, and as a
result starved not only himself but his wife and children. Though
employment was repeatedly offered him, he refused it, not from any
inability to work, but from sheer distaste of labour. He had not
sufficient wit, courage, or energy to become a criminal; but throughout
his life, wherever he went, and upon all with whom he came in contact,
he brought misery and disgrace. Eventually he reached the end of his
tether, and was cast off by every one. The result you know."

The fluency and gusto with which he related these sordid details amazed
me. I inquired how, since by his own confession he had been such a short
time in London, he had become cognisant of the man's history. He
hesitated before replying.

"Have I not told you once before to-night," he said, "that there are
very few things in this world which are hidden from my knowledge? Were
it necessary, I coul