Early the next morning, while the wanderer was yet enjoying the soundest sleep he had had since the night he fled like a hunted animal from Havre, the ex-governess was up and doing. Pressing business this time with Solomonson and Isaacs: they did not refuse now to hear her news, and act upon it too. Disruption of the prodigal's dreams. Dire disgust in the Bloomsbury lodgings! Before twelve o'clock that day, Allynne Markworth was removed in a cab under the escort of two sheriffs officers (much to the disgust of Mrs Martin, who had lent her prodigal lodger five pounds "until he could go to the bank," as he said) to Chancery Lane--or rather a small street running out of the same. He changed his lodgings a second time, from the worthy Mrs Martin's first-floor to the apartments of a certain Abednego in Curseover Street, who keeps a court of reception--popularly know as a sponging-house, of the class immortalised by Hogarth--for gentlemen under a pecuniary cloud. Markworth was arrested at the suit of certain _confreres_ of Mister Abednego, twixt "Solomonson and Isaacs, solicitors," on a writ for a largish sum of money, which he certainly could not pay. Was the detainer heavy! 3,000 pounds and costs! And he hadn't a penny in his pocket but Mrs Martin's five pounds! Pleasant! "But your friends will soon come and see you," said the Cerberus of the sponging-house in words of comfort. If Markworth had been arrested for a trifling sum, he would have taken no notice of him whatever. There is a dignity even in debt, if it be large enough! Your paltry insolvents are but small fry: a colossal defaulter is a man to be looked up to and envied, _vide_ the annals of the Bankruptcy Court. So Markworth was comfortably treated, and had a private room, as he owed a heavy sum, and, moreover, had money in his pocket. Oh! yes, there was not the least doubt Markworth's friends would look after him. He had a visitor the very first day of his incarceration, and who it was may easily be guessed. Volume 3, Chapter IX. PRINGLE "PECKED." The nuptial couch is not always a bed of roses, and so the young incumbent of Hartwood found out after a time. Not that it was all the fault of his newly-married spouse. Laura loved him in her languid way, and would have endeavoured to make his home happy if she had been left to herself; but the old campaigner stood in the gap: she had became Herbert Pringle's _bete noir_.