I went the next day to Messrs. Podge and Co. in Lombard-street, with my promise-to-pay--Eldorado in my pocket. I entered the counting-house, presented my bill, and fully expected to have received either bank-notes or gold in exchange. I waited a few minutes, and was then ushered into a back-room, and politely requested to account for this money promissory document. "From whom did you receive this bill?" said a gentleman with a powdered head and an immense watch-chain. "From Mr. Styles." "Where does he live?" "I don't know exactly; but I hope there is nothing irregular." "You can step in, Banks," said the powdered head; and a stout well-fed man, in a blue coat, with the City arms on the button, _did_ step in, and very unceremoniously proceeded to inspect the contents of my various pockets. "Conclusive!" said the powdered head, as he minutely examined a small piece of crumpled paper which had occupied one of the pockets of my small-clothes. I was handed into a hackney-coach, and then into the Mansion-house, where I was informed that I was to live rent-free for the next week in his Majesty's jail of Newgate. The bill was a forgery! The day of trial approached. I walked into the dock with _mens conscia recti_ depicted on my countenance. I knew I was innocent of any felonious intention or knowledge; and was certainly very much _disappointed_ at being found guilty upon the silent evidence of the little piece of crumpled paper, which was covered with pen and ink experiments on the signature of John Allgold and Co. whose name occupied the centre of Styles' bill. The recorder (in a very impressive manner, I must allow, for his white handkerchief was waving about the whole time) passed sentence of death upon me, and I was ordered to be taken from thence, and on the Monday following to be hung by the neck till I was dead. A pleasant termination, truly!