and stood with great shame-facedness
before him. He did not extend his hand, but stood still, in his seedy
clothes and his coat buttoned to his chin, to hide his lack of a shirt.
The blue look of the cold street had changed to a hot purple under the
influence of a softer atmosphere; and over all stood the wreck of a good
face, and a head still grand in its outline.

"Well, you look as if you were waiting to be damned," said Mr. Belcher,
roughly.

"I am, sir," responded the man solemnly.

"Very well; consider the business done, so far as I am concerned, and
clear out."

"I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher."

"I believe you; and you'll excuse me if I say that your appearance
corroborates your statement."

"And you don't recognize me? Is it possible?" And the maudlin tears came
into the man's rheumy eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "You knew me in
better days, sir;" and his voice trembled with weak emotion.

"No; I never saw you before. That game won't work, and now be off."

"And you don't remember Yates?--Sam Yates--and the happy days we spent
together in childhood?" And the man wept again, and wiped his eyes with
his coat-sleeve.

"Do you pretend to say that you are Sam Yates, the lawyer?"

"The same, at your service."

"What brought you to this?"

"Drink, and bad company, sir."

"And you want money?"

"Yes!" exclaimed the man, with a hiss as fierce as if he were a serpent.

"Do you want to earn money?"

"Anything to get it."

"Anything to get drink, I suppose. You said 'anything.' Did you mean
that?"

The man knew Robert Belcher, and he knew that the last question had a
great deal more in it than would appear to the ordinary listener.

"Lift me out of the gutter," said he, "and keep me out, and--command
me."

"I have a little business on hand," said Mr. Belcher, "that you can do,
provided you will let your drink alone--a business that I am willing to
pay for. Do you remember a man by the name of Benedict--a shiftless,
ingenious dog, who once lived in Sevenoaks?"

"Very well."

"Should you know him again, were you to see him?"

'I think I should."

"Do you know you should? I don't want any thinking about it. Could you
swear to him?"

"Yes. I don't think it would trouble me to swear to him."

"If I were to show you some of his handwriting, do you suppose that
would help you any?"

"It--might."

"I don't want any 'mights.' Do you know it would?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to