lated to him what you
had told me of Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"And I don't know that, under the circumstances, you could do a better
thing than you have done," continued the Gospeler. "Mr. BUMSTEAD,
himself, explains your flight upon the supposition that you were
possibly engaged with myself, my mother, Mr. DIBBLE, and the PENDRAGONS,
in killing poor Mr. DROOD."

"Oh, oughtn't he to be ashamed of himself, when he knows that I never
did kill any absurd creature!" cried the Flowerpot, in earnest
deprecation. "And just think of darling MAGNOLIA, too, with her poor,
ridiculous brother! You're a lawyer, Mr. DIBBLE and I should think you
could get them a _habeas corpus_, or a divorce, or some other perfectly
absurd thing about courts, that would make the judges tell the juries to
bring them in Not Guilty."

Fixing upon the lovely young reasoner a look expressive of his
affectionate wonder at her inspired perception of legal possibilities,
the old lawyer said, that the first thing in order was a meeting between
herself and Miss PENDRAGON; which, as it could scarcely take place (all
things considered,) with propriety in the private room of that lady's
brother, nor without publicity in his own office, or in a hotel, he
hardly knew how to bring about.

And here we have an example of that difference between novels and real
life which has been illustrated more than once before in this
conscientious American Adaptation of what all our profoundly critical
native journals pronounce the "most elaborately artistic work" of the
grandest of English novelists. In an equivalent situation of real life,
Mr. DIBBLE'S quandary would not have been easily relieved; but, by the
magic of artistic fiction, the particular kind of extemporized character
absolutely necessary to help him and the novel continuously along was at
that moment coming up the stairs of the hotel.[2]

At the critical instant, a servant knocked, to say, that there was a
gentleman below, "with a face as long me arrum, sir, who axed me was
there a man here av the name av SIMPSON, Miss?"

"It is JOHN--it is Mr. BUMSTEAD!" shrieked FLORA, hastening
involuntarily towards a mirror,--"and just see how my dress is
wrinkled!"

"My name is BENTHAM--JEREMY BENTHAM," said a deep voice in the doorway;
and there entered a gloomy figure, with smoky, light hair, a curiously
long countenance, and black worsted gloves. "SIMPSON!--old
OCTAVIUS!--did you never, never see me before?"

"If I am not