lonel Clive suffers an unrecorded defeat; and
our hero finds food for reflection.

It was four o'clock, and Tuesday afternoon--the day before the Good
Intent was to sail from the Pool. Desmond was kicking his heels in his
inn, longing for the morrow. Even now he had not seen the vessel on which
he was to set forth in quest of his fortune. She lay in the Pool, but
Diggle had found innumerable reasons why Desmond should not visit her
until he embarked for good and all. She was loading her cargo; he would
be in the way. Captain Barker was in a bad temper; better not see him in
his tantrums. The press gangs were active; they thought nothing of
boarding a vessel and seizing on any active young fellow who looked a
likely subject for his Majesty's navy. Such were the reasons alleged.

And so Desmond had to swallow his impatience and fill in his time as best
he might; reading the newspapers, going to see Mr. Garrick and Mistress
Kitty Clive at Drury Lane, spending an odd evening at Ranelagh Gardens.

On this Tuesday afternoon he had nothing to do. Diggle was out; Desmond
had read the newspapers and glanced at the last number of the World; he
had written to his mother--the third letter since his arrival in London;
he could not settle to anything. He resolved to go for a walk as far as
St. Paul's, perhaps, and take a last look at the busy streets he was not
likely to see again for many a day.

Forth then he issued. The streets were muddy; a mist was creeping up from
the river, promising to thicken into a London fog, and the link boys were
already preparing their tow and looking for a rich harvest of coppers ere
the night was old. Desmond picked his way through the quagmires of John
Street, crossed Crutched Friars, and went up Mark Lane into Fenchurch
Street, intending to go by Leadenhall Street and Cornhill into Cheapside.

He had just reached the lower end of Billiter Street, the narrow
thoroughfare leading into Leadenhall, when he saw Diggle's tall figure
running amain towards him, with another man close behind, apparently in
hot pursuit. Diggle caught sight of Desmond at the same moment, and his
eyes gleamed as with relief. He quickened his pace.

"Hold this fellow behind me," he panted as he passed, and before Desmond
could put a question he was gone.

There was no time for deliberation. Desmond had but just perceived that
the pursuer was in the garb of a gentleman and had a broad patch of
plaster stretched across