began by selecting his suit; and it may have been his vanity,
or a strange longing to look for once what he once had been, but he
could not resist the young man's excellent evening clothes.

"This fellow comes from Home," said he. "And they are spending their
Christmas pretty far back, or he would have taken these with him."

He had wallowed in the highly enamelled bath, and was looking for a
towel when he saw his head in the shaving-glass; he was dry enough
before he could think of anything else. There was a dilemma, obvious yet
unforeseen. That shaven head! Purple and fine linen could not disguise
the convict's crop; a wig was the only hope; but to wear a wig one must
first try it on--and let the perruquier call the police. The knot was
Gordian. And yet, desperately as Stingaree sought unravelment, he was at
the same time subconsciously as deep in a study of a face so unfamiliar
that at first he had scarcely known it for his own. It was far leaner
than of old; it was no longer richly tanned; and the mouth called
louder than ever for a mustache. The hair, what there was of it, seemed
iron-gray. It had certainly receded at the temples. What a pity, while
it was about it----

Stingaree clapped his hands; his hunt for the razor was feverish,
tremulous. Such a young man must have many razors; he had, he had--here
they were. Oh, young man blessed among young men!

It was quite dark when a gentleman in evening clothes, light overcoat,
and opera hat, sallied forth into the quiet road. Quiet as it was,
however, a whistle blew as he trod the pavement, and his hour or two of
liberty seemed at an end. His long term in prison had mixed Stingaree's
ideas of the old country and the new; he had forgotten that it is the
postmen who blow the whistles in Australia. Yet this postman stopped him
on the spot.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but if it's quite convenient may I ask you for
the Christmas-box you was kind enough to promise me?"

"I think you are mistaking me for someone else," said Stingaree.

"Why, so I am, sir! I thought you came out of Mr. Brinton's house."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said the convict. "If I only had change you
should have some of it, in spite of your mistake; but, unfortunately, I
have none."

He had, however, a handsome pair of opera-glasses, which he converted
into change (on the gratuitous plea that he had forgotten his purse) at
the first pawnbroker's on the confines of the city. The pawnbroker
talke