"Well?"

"Do you see that letter?" and he held it up in his hand.

"Yes."

"Well, in that I am to read a convincing proof that I am a scoundrel!"

"A what? Scoundrel? Pooh, nonsense! What's up now? Come, now, old boy,
no melodrama. Out with it. But, first of all, read the letter."

Jack laid the unopened letter on the table, filled his pipe, lighted
it, and then, throwing himself back in his chair, sat staring at the
ceiling, and sending forth great clouds of smoke that gathered in dense
folds and soon hung overhead in a dark canopy.

I watched him in silence for some time. I suspected what that letter
might be, but did not in any way let my suspicion appear.

"Jack," said I, at last, "I've seen you several times in trouble during
the last few days, but it is now my solemn conviction, made up from a
long observation of your character, your manner, your general style,
and your facial expression, that on this present occasion you are hit
harder than ever you've been since I had the pleasure of your
acquaintance."

"That's a fact," said Jack, earnestly and solemnly.

"It isn't a secret, you said?"

"No, not from you. I'll tell you presently. I need one pipe, at least,
to soothe my nerves."

He relapsed into silence, and, as I saw that he intended to tell me of
his own accord, I questioned him no further, but sat waiting patiently
till he found strength to begin the confession of his woes.

At length he reached forward, and once more raised the letter from the
table.

"Macrorie, my boy."

"Well?"

"Do you see this letter?"

"Yes."

"Whom do you think it's from?"

"How do I know?"

"Well," said Jack, "this letter is the sequel to that conversation you
and I had, which ended in our row."

"The sequel?"

"Yes. You remember that I left threatening that Number Three should be
mine."

"Oh, yes; but don't bother about that now," said I.

"Bother about it? Man alive, that's the very thing that I have to do!
The bother, as you call it, has just begun. This letter is from Number
Three."

"Number Three? Marion!"

"Yes, Marion, Miss O'Halloran, the one I swore should be mine. Ha, ha!"
laughed Jack, wildly; "a precious mess I've made of it! Mine? By Jove!
What's the end of it? To her a broken heart--to me dishonor and
infamy!"

"My dear boy," said I, "doesn't it strike you that your language
partakes, to a slight extent, of the melodramatic? Don't get stagy,
dear boy."

"Stagy? Good Lord, Macr