In the next and final act the Villain made a supreme effort. He began by slaying the drummer-boy,--presumably to keep his hand in,--but on going through his victim's pockets in search of certain "despatches" which that youthful hero had undertaken to carry through the Russian lines,--where to, heaven knows!--the unfortunate man discovered a locket, which instantly revealed to him the surprising, but none the less distressing, intelligence that he had slain his own son. His anguish was pitiful to behold, and when the Hero came on and began to rub it in by further excerpts from the Scriptures, the audience to a man decided that if the Villain brought it off this time no jury would convict, but that he would be bound over at the most. He certainly set about the business with more gumption than usual. Waiting until the Hero was well launched into "Secondly," with the limelight full in his eyes, he once more produced the glittering knife. Suddenly the ubiquitous Katinka dashed on, and in the most unsportsmanlike manner shot the Villain in the small of the back, at a range of about eighteen inches. He dropped dead across the body of his son (which must have hurt that infant prodigy very much). All the other characters sidled on from the wings and formed a grand concluding tableau, the Hero, egregious to the last and entwined in a stained-glass attitude with the Hospital Nurse, pronouncing a sort of benediction as the curtain fell. "Doesn't this remind you of the Drama as it used to be dished up to the undergraduates in the old Barn at Cambridge?" remarked a voice. Hughie turned to the speaker. He found beside him a man of about thirty, with a fair moustache, which half hid a weak but amiable mouth and a receding chin. He was dressed in the thick blue shore-going garments of the seaman, but he looked too slight for an A.B. and too clean for a fireman. "Deck-hand," said Hughie to himself. "Gentleman once--no, still!" "Hallo!" he replied. "You seem to know me. Forgive me if I ought to know you, but I can't fix you at present. Odd thing, too, because I don't often forget a face." "I was up at Cambridge in your time," said the man. "Not Benedict's?" "No--Trinity. I was sent down ultimately. But I knew you well by sight. Often saw you in the boat, and so on. You're Marrable, aren't you?" "Yes. Were you a rowing man?" "No. I hunted with the Drag and rode at Cottenham--in those days." He glanced philosophically at his present attire. "Come and have something," said Hughie. The man interested him. He might, of course, be a mere long-shore shark on the make, or he might be what he looked--a good-hearted, well-born waster--an incorrigible but contented failure. Anyhow, five minutes over a friendly glass would probably settle the question. "I wonder if it's possible to obtain a decent British drink in this clam-ridden hole," Hughie continued.