Learmont walked on slowly, for he knew not but he might be in some dangerous quarter of the city, and his suspicions that the locality in which he was did not possess any great claims to fashion or respectability were much increased by a door suddenly opening in a house some dozen yards in advance of him, and a man being flung from it with considerable force into the centre of the street, while a loud voice, exclaimed:— “Go to the devil, an’ you will. Are we to sit up all night to attend to one sot? No, that will never suit the Old Mitre, an’ there were a round dozen of you, we might think of it.” “It’s d—damned ill-usage,” remonstrated the man who had been turned out so unceremoniously from what appeared to Learmont a little tavern, and the door of which was immediately flung close, and barred from within. “That’s the—the way of the world,” remarked the drunken man, as he slowly gathered himself up on his feet, and shook his head with tipsy gravity. “There’s no such thing as a consideration in the world, and the street even is turning round—and round in a most ex—ex—extra—ordinary manner. That’s how I never can get home prop—properly. The streets keep a-moving in that ex—ex—extraordinary manner;—that end comes round to this end—and that’s how I’m led astray. It’s too bad—it is indeed; it’s enough to—to make one weep, it is. But no matter ex—ex—a double extraordinary man, and a greatly injured character.” The drunkard had evidently reached the sentimental stage of intoxication, and he staggered along weeping and lamenting alternately. “I may gather from this sot some information of where I am,” thought Learmont, and in an instant he strided after the reeling man. When he reached him he touched him on the shoulder, and said,— “My friend, can you tell me where I am?” “Eh?—’pon my w—w—word, that’s a funny question. Why, you—you’ve just been turned out of the Mitre.” “Pho! Pho!” cried Learmont, impatiently. “Can you tell me what part of the town we are in?” “The o—open air, of course,” replied the man. “Hurrah! That’s my opinion. My opinion’s hurrah! And all I mean to say is, if somebody else—no, that isn’t it—if I didn’t take somebody else’s job—no, that ain’t it.” “What do you mean?” said Learmont. “I’ll do it—I’ll do it, I tell you.” “Do what?” “Do what? Come, that’s good of you. You know what. All I mean to say is, that if somebody else is to do it, why I am sure nobody—no, that isn’t it either. How very ex—ex—extraordinary!” “Idiot!” exclaimed Learmont, striding away; but the man called after him, and his voice echoed through the deserted street, as he said,— “Don’t be—be—offended. I’ll do it, I tell you. No, no—nonsense, now, I know you—mind I—know you: it’s only a mur—murder! Ah! ah!” Learmont paused in astonishment, not altogether unmingled with dismay, at these words and he was by the man’s side again in a moment. “You know me?“ he said. “Yes, yes, I believe you,” replied, the man. “I’ll do it.”