d painful, that I scarce know if I should ask you to
shake hands."

"As a man, no," replied Somerset; "but I have no objection to shake
hands with you, as I might with a pump-well that ran poison or
hell-fire."

"This is a very cold parting," sighed the dynamiter; and still followed
by Somerset, he began to descend the platform. This was now bustling
with passengers; the train for Liverpool was just about to start,
another had but recently arrived; and the double tide made movement
difficult. As the pair reached the neighbourhood of the bookstall,
however, they came into an open space; and here the attention of the
plotter was attracted by a Standard broadside bearing the words: "Second
Edition: Explosion in Golden Square." His eye lighted; groping in his
pocket for the necessary coin, he sprang forward--his bag knocked
sharply on the corner of the stall--and instantly, with a formidable
report, the dynamite exploded. When the smoke cleared away the stall was
seen much shattered, and the stall-keeper running forth in terror from
the ruins; but of the Irish patriot or the Gladstone bag no adequate
remains were to be found.

In the first scramble of the alarm, Somerset made good his escape, and
came out upon the Euston Road, his head spinning, his body sick with
hunger, and his pockets destitute of coin. Yet as he continued to walk
the pavements, he wondered to find in his heart a sort of peaceful
exultation, a great content, a sense, as it were, of divine presence and
the kindliness of fate; and he was able to tell himself that even if
the worst befell, he could now starve with a certain comfort since Zero
was expunged.

Late in the afternoon he found himself at the door of Mr. Godall's shop;
and being quite unmanned by his long fast, and scarce considering what
he did, he opened the glass door and entered.

"Ha!" said Mr. Godall, "Mr. Somerset! Well, have you met with an
adventure? Have you the promised story? Sit down, if you please; suffer
me to choose you a cigar of my own special brand; and reward me with a
narrative in your best style."

"I must not take a cigar," said Somerset.

"Indeed!" said Mr. Godall. "But now I come to look at you more closely,
I perceive that you are changed. My poor boy, I hope there is nothing
wrong?"

Somerset burst into tears.

EPILOGUE OF THE CIGAR DIVAN

On a certain day of lashing rain in the December of last year, and
between the hours of nine and ten in the mor